


Some things we do are unforgivable (but must be done all the same)

by dogandmonkeyshow



Series: Unforgivable Things [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deceit, Espionage, Gen, Politics, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, not TAB-compliant, not s04-compliant, unflattering depictions of serving government ministers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 105,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogandmonkeyshow/pseuds/dogandmonkeyshow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is not sufficient to have power; one must be seen by the pack to have it. For power to be real, sufficient numbers must believe in it, just as they believe in the security of the pound and that London property prices only move in one direction. </p><p>For Mycroft, these facts were bred in the bone. And the moment the bullet from John Watson's pistol entered Magnussen's brain, Mycroft's power began to slip away, because others stopped believing in it. With Sherlock under threat, and his own position undermined, Mycroft schemes to protect them all against political rivals, unseen adversaries, and ghosts from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bit of a step down from God

**Author's Note:**

> This story runs in parallel to the second story in the series, _It's not the puzzle you were expecting_ , and can be read before, after, or alongside it. 
> 
> And a shedload of thanks, again, to the lovely dioscureantwins for her assistance with this story.

**Saturday, January 3**

Mycroft knew he was going to pay a high price for his decision, but he didn't care; Sherlock was going back to Baker Street. If MI5 wanted him back in his cell, they could bloody well come and get him themselves.

Mycroft wasn't sure what disturbed and annoyed him most: James Moriarty's smirking face on his television screen, Sherlock's agitated silence at the sight, or the fact that Mycroft was going to have to be thankful to some unknown other for a fortuitously timed intervention. 

He and Sherlock had barely spoken during the drive back into London. Though the respite from the usual sniping was welcome, Mycroft would have welcomed a distraction from his thoughts as he pondered the failure of his own plan for saving Sherlock from the Kosovo mission. Sherlock's equanimity over his reprieve, as if the events at Appledore had suddenly become irrelevant, presaged an upcoming tantrum now that the immediate danger was over, and Mycroft was not in the mood. So he prepared himself for the expected attack the moment his brother was back in his own territory of Baker Street.

When they arrived, Mrs Hudson launched into her usual fussing, clucking hen routine for a full ten minutes before she finally noticed Sherlock's hints that were leaden to the point of rudeness. She returned to her own flat, unaware of the steady diet of lies he'd fed her since walking in the door. Standing in the centre of the room, leaning on his umbrella, Mycroft watched the performance unfold around him. Still wrapped in his Belstaff, Sherlock whirled from one end of the room to the other, touching things. It seemed a compulsion, an escalating excitation and Mycroft realised that this was his brother expressing his relief. To be home, back at Baker Street and “safe”, with the enticement of another Moriarty-related puzzle to solve. Mycroft couldn't help a sense of foreboding as he watched his brother's disturbing exhibition.

When Andrea's text arrived, informing him he'd been summoned to Downing Street, Mycroft toyed with the idea of ignoring it. But much as he didn't want to, he had to go. Briefing the Prime Minister and members of Cabinet over the new “Moriarty situation” seemed a monumental waste of time in that moment; no one knew anything yet. With a sense of dread he left, receiving no response from Sherlock as he made his farewells.

On his way to Downing Street, Mycroft called Lestrade. After three failed attempts, Mycroft relented and left the man a voicemail, giving him a brief, allusive message about Sherlock's state and asking the man to check up on him later that day, if possible. Then he called John and left a message (Why was no one answering their phones? he wondered), informing John that he had just left Baker Street. He hoped he didn't need to spell out the meaning behind this message: check in on Sherlock.

When Mycroft arrived at Downing Street he wasn't surprised to see Blythe there. Mycroft was glad to see the other man cooling his heels in the corridor outside the Prime Minister's office, as well. The rueful look on Blythe's face confirmed Mycroft's suspicion that Lady Smallwood was already inside. The two men shared a nodded greeting and Mycroft took a seat nearby. They ignored one another in the watchful manner particular to antagonists forced to share close quarters. 

Mycroft let the restrained bustle going on around them fade into background noise, and focused his attention on the painting to the right of Blythe's head in order to allow his mind to descend into processing space. Just as his attention was beginning to focus, the door opened and an aide ushered them inside.

The Prime Minister was accompanied by the Home Secretary, Foreign Secretary and Lady Smallwood, and Mycroft was again surprised that Blythe hadn't been included in the previous conversation. He was pleasantly surprised that neither the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff nor the Cabinet Office Secretary were present. In this, he saw Lady Smallwood's guiding hand, and Mycroft hoped the result was that there would be less pandering to politics and a greater focus on actually accomplishing something useful than was the norm in this building. After greetings and preliminaries were dispensed with, the Home Secretary turned to Mycroft. “How is your brother?”

This was not the opening Mycroft had been expecting and he allowed his surprise to show. “As well as can be expected, ma'am. Thank you for asking.”

“I understand you've returned him to his flat in Baker Street.” The Foreign Secretary was trying and failing to sound imperious and Mycroft suppressed a sigh. “He is not a flight risk. Not with the prospect of this puzzle to solve in front of him.”

“Is it really Moriarty?” the Prime Minister asked.

Mycroft barely resisted the urge to snap, “Of course not, you ninny. The man is dead!” Instead, he replied, “Moriarty is dead. Of this there can be no doubt.”

“Who is it then?”

 _You expect me to know this already? With no data to hand?_ “It is impossible to tell at this time.”

“GCHQ are tracing the source as we speak,” Lady Smallwood added. 

Mycroft nodded, though he kept to himself his suspicions that they wouldn't find anything. “We should not assume a technological breach at this time. The fewer assumptions we make the better.”

“Speaking of your brother,” Blythe interjected quietly. “When he returned sixteen months ago, you assured us that he had eliminated Moriarty's entire network.”

Mycroft glanced over to the Foreign Secretary and the satisfied look on the man's face confirmed one of Mycroft's long-standing suspicions. “If I remember correctly, Sir Edwin, I conveyed to this group _my brother's assurances_ that he had destroyed all of Moriarty's network. And when the Prime Minister asked my opinion on the matter, I replied that I thought it unlikely to be true. We've long had intelligence that pointed to persons affiliated with Moriarty operating in America.” The group followed Mycroft's glance to the Foreign Secretary, who gave a grudging nod in confirmation. Mycroft continued. “Though we still have little more than hints and rumours to that effect. The man's organisation was remarkably fluid, and at times it has been difficult to distinguish between his associates and his clients. If, indeed, there ever was much of a distinction.”

“If I might add, Prime Minister, the tensions between the CIA and the FBI being what they are, we've never been able to receive any confirmation that James Moriarty ever had operations in America,” Lady Smallwood interjected.

“Or this could be someone entirely unrelated,” the Home Secretary mused, almost to herself.

“Someone with a damned odd sense of humour,” the Prime Minister added.

Mycroft shared a tense glance with Lady Smallwood. “That is possible, of course. But I think unlikely.” He turned to the Home Secretary. “The methodology, the focus on media attention, leads me to believe it's someone familiar with Moriarty's methods. Again, we cannot presume a technological breach. Moriarty's attacks against the Tower, the Bank and Pentonville were all facilitated by insiders. They were not, technically, “hacks” of any kind.” He turned to the Prime Minister. “We should have confirmation by the end of the day the exact nature of the attacks, which will give us a better idea of what we're facing.”

Mycroft ignored Blythe's obvious annoyance that he was speaking on GCHQ's behalf, and Mycroft wondered what Blythe knew that he didn't.

“Of course. Best not to fly off the handle. Though it's damned startling to know someone can just come along and take over the entire system.” The Prime Minister turned to the Home Secretary. “We'll have to get someone to look into that, make sure it doesn't happen again. Priority one.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded in tones that Mycroft recognised as her shoving the suggestion to the bottom of her mental Inbox.

The Prime Minister toyed with a folder on his desk. “There is still the matter of your brother—”

“This 'Moriarty situation' does not change the fact of what was decided in December.” The Home Secretary leant forward and spoke before the Foreign Secretary could start; the man sat back in his chair with a frown on his face. “Sherlock has been brought back to deal with this, whatever it is. Once it is resolved, the—” She paused to share a look with Lady Smallwood. “Sentence, I suppose you would call it, will take place then. In some form or another. Though I understand the mission he was sent on today will be off the table.” She turned to the Foreign Secretary for confirmation.

“If this takes more than eight days or so, yes. Things will have moved on by then.”

Mycroft kept his expression neutral under Blythe's unblinking examination, even as his heart sank. “Of course.”

“As this is, as far we know, an entirely domestic matter, MI5 will be leading the charge,” the Prime Minister stated, looking between Mycroft and Blythe.

“Of course, Prime Minister.” Mycroft did not ask any of the growing list of questions forming in his mind. Discretion was the order of the day, especially as his role in the investigation still had not been addressed. The matter seemed designed for his involvement, but it appeared he was to be sidelined. 

No one said a word for a few pregnant seconds. Mycroft addressed the Prime Minister. “Has there been any progress on discussions with the Americans regarding Magnussen?”

The Foreign Secretary jumped in, his face colouring a bit at the snub. “They're still blathering on about extradition, as if the crime took place in America.” His _faux pas_ lowered the temperature in the room by a few degrees, Mycroft was amused to see. He glanced back to the man, then back to the now-scowling Prime Minister. “There's no question of extradition. Bloody cheek,” the PM muttered at the Foreign Secretary.

 _Have they named my brother as the murderer?_ “Have they made a specific request?” Mycroft directed the voiced question to Lady Smallwood. He'd have liked to direct it to Blythe, but it was not the time to starting testing hypotheses.

“There has been some off the record mutterings, but no official request.” 

Mycroft glanced around the room to see who didn't find this information surprising, but the company wasn't of the sort to reveal their secrets accidentally, except perhaps for the Prime Minister. But he was the one person in the room Mycroft had no suspicion of involvement in leaking information to the Americans, solely because he wouldn't have understood the strategic value in doing so.

“They've lost faith in our ability to run our own shop; of course they haven't bothered asking. They'll probably just—” The Foreign Secretary stopped, flushing a bright red as he almost immediately proved Mycroft wrong. Mycroft stilled and slowly released his breath, carefully not looking at Blythe or Lady Smallwood. The Foreign Secretary recovered quickly, though. “Not surprising, after the disaster with the Adler woman. That cost us. Absolute cock up and from what I can see no one has been held accountable for it.”

Mycroft remained relaxed, aloof; on the surface his usual composure remained unruffled, but internally he seethed. The man's meaning: that _Mycroft_ hadn't been held accountable for the Bond Air escapade. He addressed the Prime Minister. “I can continue to pursue the American aspect of the Magnussen—”

“The Americans won't talk to you. Our CIA liaison was absolutely clear on that point.” The Foreign Secretary allowed a hint of triumph in his tones, and Mycroft repressed a sneer at the man's vulgarity, which had earned an outright glare from the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary. Lady Smallwood looked to be suppressing a smile only through her utmost efforts.

The Prime Minister shifted in his chair in his clearest tell Mycroft knew that he was about to begin pontificating. “We need all hands on deck for this. The press is crawling all over it and we need answers now. It's been up on YouTube for hours already. Makes us look a bunch of idiots.” He turned to Mycroft. “Find out what you can at your end.” He glanced around the room. “We need teamwork on this. No squirrelling away intel. I expect concrete answers I can take to the press first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” they all intoned with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The dismissal was obvious and they all stood.

“Elizabeth, I'd like you to stay and take a look at this press statement.”

Mycroft followed Blythe out the door. In the corridor, the Home Secretary was the only one of the three that met his eye as they went through the courtesies before heading in their various directions: the Ministers to the Cabinet meeting room, Mycroft and Blythe toward the exit.

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Blythe turned to him. “I'll have my staff send over what we have. Interesting times, eh?”

Mycroft's only response was the flash of a thin smile and an entirely insincere expression of agreement, before turning to the door. Andrea waited in the car already and she had the sense to leave him to his thoughts as they made their way back to Whitehall.

Mycroft picked over the plan he'd tried, and failed, to bring to fruition in an attempt to save Sherlock from his mission. One of the more remarkable elements of the situation hadn't been mentioned by anyone that day. Whoever was behind the Moriarty video had known when Sherlock was to have left. The timing had been perfect: after Sherlock's plane had left the tarmac, after everyone had gone through the wrenching enterprise of saying their goodbyes, but before Sherlock had been put in danger. This was a tremendous miscalculation on the part of the responsible party as it meant that Mycroft would know they were receiving information from one of a very small number of people, which in theory would make them easier to identify.

Though, giving it a moment's thought, Mycroft realised that it wasn't so surprising that the “coincidence” of the timing had gone unmentioned; Mycroft suspected that the source of that intelligence had been in the Prime Minister's office that afternoon.

~ + ~ 

When they strode into the environs of Mycroft's dominion, Andrea began to reclaim her usual role. “Should I assemble the security team, sir?” she asked as they traversed the outermost part of his office.

“Not yet. Though please ask Mrs Fraser to increase surveillance on the Watsons. Two levels, I think.”

Andrea nodded and typed as they walked. When they settled into his innermost office, Mycroft paused, allowing her to take over the burden of the conversation and she grabbed the opportunity, launching into the logistics of next steps: liaison with GCHQ, MI5, and the Cabinet Office; and seconding IT staff to assist Miss Puri, Mycroft's head of IT, to give her more foot soldiers in the inevitable trench warfare of analysis that was coming. When Andrea was done, Mycroft still refrained from joining in the discussion. He knew the arrangements were safe in her hands and he wasn't inclined to share his thoughts on the briefing just yet.

Andrea paused for a few seconds and let a moment of concern show on her face, before asking if he would like her to order him dinner, as it was obvious none of them were going home any time soon.

The thought of food turned Mycroft's stomach, so he declined, with thanks. She waited patiently for another moment, then continued extemporising on the mundane details, leaving him to play a mental game of whack-a-mole. His mind wouldn't settle on one aspect of the situation for more than a second or two before chasing off at the sight of another issue popping its head above ground: Sherlock to Blythe to the CIA to “Moriarty” to Mary Watson and back to Sherlock again.

When his attention returned to Andrea, she was placing a cup of tea in front of him. He must have been distracted for far longer than he'd thought, an inexcusable slip in concentration when he could ill afford it.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. “We will need every Met report on the incident available to us.” Andrea cocked an eyebrow at the concept of a Met report that _wasn't_ available to them and Mycroft answered the unasked question. “You will likely find MI5 suddenly much less cooperative than in the past, so your infamous resourcefulness will be required even more than usual.” He paused as she chuckled quietly, continuing to type notes into her phone at a blistering pace, obviously uninterested in the reason why. “Please tell Miss Puri to not waste her time with liaison on the IT side; have one of her deputies take that on. I fear the Prime Minister's request for 'teamwork' will largely be a theatrical exercise rather than a productive one. I want her to focus all her energy on tracing the broadcast hack. GCHQ will waste at least 48 hours faffing about and by then we might not as well bother. It's essential we have an answer tonight; by tomorrow, the scenery will most likely have shifted considerably at this end.

“And you, my dear, I would like to work your contacts in the media. Anything, everything that you can get will be helpful. We need information, rumours, anything at all, that indicates where the 'hack' might have been assisted in-house. We need to measure the boundaries of this before we start mining for details. Have Miss Davies assist you; have her contact the commercial display firms.” Mycroft paused to wonder again at that aspect of the “hack”. Most criminals would have limited their attack to the media, but hacking the large commercial display firms had shown true flair. The culprits must have known what the impact would be of having Moriarty's face plastered all over Piccadilly Circus. That image had been the most shocking of them all, and the footage would be running on the news until the case was solved, Mycroft suspected. “How is this all playing out on-line?”

“Much as you would expect. A lot of conspiracy theories, people claiming they never believed the second coroner's verdict, it's all a cover-up, the usual. In the last half hour or so, your brother has begun trending in association with the case; people are demanding he be involved in solving it.”

“Well, the clamouring British masses are going to get their wish for once. Because apparently Sherlock and Moriarty are as inextricably bound in the 'minds' at the head of the British government as they are in the public imagination. For better or worse—” 

As he trailed off, Mycroft sensed a growing hesitation from Andrea. It was obvious she had a question she considered impolite to ask, so he did her the courtesy of broaching the subject himself. “This morning's events will most likely have some effect on our operations for the foreseeable future.”

“Of course.” She paused and looked uncomfortable for a few seconds before asking the question that actually surprised Mycroft. “Do you anticipate rumours that you were responsible for the video?”

 _That demonstrates an unexpected understanding of counter-intelligence._ “From anyone else's viewpoint, it's a logical assumption. Proof, though, will be very elusive.” She wasn't in the least successful at hiding the hint of annoyance that briefly appeared on her face.

“We'll need to get ahead of that rumour.”

“It will be too late already.” He consulted his watch; a ridiculous affectation, he knew, but couldn't help himself. As he replaced it he allowed himself to imagine the conversation that was likely going on at a number of St James' clubs at very moment. “Our first priority is to determine where there was collusion in the broadcast.”

Andrea was smiling down at her mobile as she continued typing. “Would you care for a little wager, sir?”

“Perhaps not. Though I have no objection to the staff opening a pool.”

“Where shall I put down your pound?”

“That would hardly be fair, would it?”

She glanced up at him over the top of her mobile. “No, of course not.”

They exchanged thin smiles at shared understanding of just which media outlet his bet would have gone on.

“Do you really think the Met files will be of any use to us? Or is the request to head someone off the scent?”

“A bit of both. Oh, there might be some useful data, but my hopes are not high. You will not be able to go through Lestrade. Commercial crime is not the responsibility of his division, and until MI5 take it off their hands and reclassify the case in order to keep the press at bay, then the commercial crime unit will have the files. Lestrade will be able to provide you with the name of someone useful.”

“When would you like to meet with Puri?”

“Tomorrow at seven. But I would like hourly status reports from her, as well as from Mrs Fraser on my brother's surveillance. Just a sentence or two, unless something of interest pops up.”

“Won't the Prime Minister expect a briefing tonight?”

“Of course. But as he has placed MI5 in the vanguard of the investigation, they will be responsible for briefing the Prime Minister.” Mycroft didn't bother hiding his amusement at the thought of how that would go. 

She smiled, eyes still focused on her phone. “Do you expect that situation to last long?”

Mycroft paused, something at the back of his mind trying to catch his attention. “We shall see. GCHQ are already trying to shoulder their way to the top of the table. Let's let them jostle each other for a few days and see what comes loose and falls to the ground for us to pick up.”

“I imagine the Prime Minister will fail to find the humour in the situation.”

“The perspective offered by adequate distance from the field of play is often illuminating.” She continued to type for a minute or so while Mycroft checked his news feed. “Has either John Watson or Lestrade contacted my brother?”

Andrea finally glanced up from her phone and Mycroft knew what her answer would be. “John Watson sent him a text.”

 _What?_ “A text.”

She hesitated. “He asked your brother how he was, and he responded that he was fine. There's been no contact from the Chief Inspector.”

Mycroft locked eyes with her for a moment before she looked away, flustered, and turned her attention back to her typing.

Mycroft stared at his computer screen, his news feed scrolling by, unseen. _This is not what you promised, John. Where the hell are you?_

~ + ~

**Sunday, January 4**

Mycroft was not surprised to see coverage of the Moriarty video still dominating the morning's news headlines. Comment from the government having been the very definition of vacuous had, of course, resulted in a fair amount of conspiracy theorising in the lunatic quadrant of the press. Mycroft tried—and failed—to not feel smug at MI5's obvious failure to provide the Prime Minister with any useful information, and the press was taking their pound of flesh as a result. The press' irresponsible scaremongering was unfortunate, if expected, and he knew that a fair portion of his day would be wasted talking the more hysteria-prone members of the Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet off their respective ledges.

As he dressed, Mycroft kept one eye on play-back of the surveillance footage of Sherlock at Baker Street the night before. It confirmed the hourly reports sent to him by Janet Fraser and her team: his brother hadn't left the flat, hadn't had any visitors other than his landlady, and had had no contact with Lestrade or John Watson other than the latter's derisory attempt at verifying Sherlock's wellbeing. Mycroft wasn't sure what angered him more, John Watson abandoning Sherlock in his time of need, or Sherlock for apparently thinking his reprieve from MI6's suicide mission was to be a holiday, considering the complete lack of effort he was putting into the “Moriarty” case.

By the time he arrived at his office, Mycroft had managed to regain some approximation of his usual composure. He doubted anyone other than Andrea would be able to see his agitation, and as she was already familiar with his many concerns, he wasn't bothered. 

Mycroft was glad to see Puri waiting for him at Andrea's desk. The hours at the office showed on her face, but he had no sympathy. She'd been told her hours in his employ would be erratic, and she'd insisted she'd wanted the job anyway. He waved for her to follow him as he passed. Andrea was in his office already, standing in front of his desk sorting files. She greeted him with her usual deceptively offhand manner as he waved Puri to a chair and took his.

“Miss Puri.”

“Good morning, sir.” She paused and drew a deep breath as Mycroft and Andrea watched, their twin expectant faces probably the source of the young woman's nervousness. “Well, so far we've confirmed that it was a mixed attack. Some channels, BBC and ITV at least, and at least one of the larger display advertising companies, were subject to an external hacking, as were the BBC's web sites. We couldn't find any evidence that Sky was hacked, so they had someone on the inside give them access.”

 _That should shut Murdoch up for a day or two_ , Mycroft thought. “From where did the attacks originate?”

“We're working on that, sir. I should warn you, though, we may not be able to trace them through all the proxies. Especially if they've used any Asian ones. But we'll keep at it.” She paused and her expression communicated a considerable unease. “May I speak plainly, sir?”

“You're no longer in the services, Miss Puri. Thoughtful, well-informed opinion is always welcome.”

“Of course, sir. Sorry. Um, well. The thing is. I think we need to prepare ourselves for the likelihood that we're not going to be able to trace this. I mean, the problem with tech solutions is that the villains are always at least one step ahead of us. We're always chasing. We're probably going to need intelligence on the ground to crack this. Old school, if you know what I mean.”

Mycroft watched the woman retreat back into her shell a bit, obviously afraid of the consequences of being the bearer of unwelcome tidings. 

“Thank you, Miss Puri.”

She glanced at Andrea, who nodded and Puri stood. “Lladislaw and Billie will be on this until we crack it or chase down every dead end as far as we can go.”

“As I would expect,” Mycroft replied in warning tones. He was not happy to see that she was expecting praise simply for doing her job; praise was for success, not mere effort, in Mycroft's book. But she was at least clever enough to catch his meaning. Then he realised it had been a backhanded request for permission to go home, and he turned away so that Andrea would deal with her.

When Puri had been escorted out, Andrea returned, a rueful expression on her face. “She'll learn. This is the first significant incident she's faced since coming over.”

“I did not request a work experience student when filling that position, and there is no time for 'learning curves'. I need her to perform. Now.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you have anything to add to Miss Puri's report?”

“Nothing I've heard contradicts what we've found out from our end. _The Mail_ website was hacked, and they took it down as soon as they realised. Which just encouraged the conspiracy nutters. There doesn't seem to have been any attempt to use the chaos yesterday or last night as cover for any other attacks: there were no discernible moves against the banks, the Met, SIS, the government—”

“All for show,” Mycroft mused.

“It's a play against you, sir.”

He smiled at her obvious concern. “Why do you think so?”

She paused and gave him a knowing look, aware that he was giving her one of the tests she disliked so much. But Mycroft had long thought Andrea had considerable promise as an analyst, and he still waited for the day she accepted his mentorship for that purpose. She huffed a little before starting. “Someone wanted our attention, and they wanted the world to see them getting it. They wanted everyone to know what they're capable of, that they can get control over such a wide variety of systems, and coordinate such a broad-based and comprehensive hacking.

“But why Moriarty's face? They could have used anything that would catch people's attention. Because they want the world to believe he's still alive. Hence the similarities to the Tower, Bank of England, and Pentonville attacks. Most people won't believe it, but enough people are suspicious of the government they'll think the second coroner's ruling was a cover-up. The people behind it want to cause chaos, and I think they want to focus attention on your brother for some reason, because he and Moriarty are linked in the public imagination. And a play against your brother is a play against you, sir. The only question is why.”

Mycroft nodded in response to her reasonable, but not exceptional, efforts. “The question is which out of a wide range of probable whys is the correct one. And once we have that, we have the first clue as to the culprit.”

~ + ~

That afternoon, while Mycroft ploughed his way through some of the backlog of work _not_ related to the “Mortiarty” case, Andrea popped her head around his office door. 

“Chief Inspector Lestrade has got in touch. He's proposed 7:30 this evening.”

“That's fine. Thank you.” As Mycroft turned his attention back to the most recent Foreign Office report on Yemen, his personal mobile chimed. He was surprised to see it was Sherlock.

_Where are you? Expected you hovering annoyingly at the crack of dawn.  
SH_

Mycroft let off a brief, quiet chortle as he contemplated calling, then changed his mind and typed his reply. It was extremely unlikely that this conversation would contain anything of significance.

_Busy. Not everything in the universe is about you, Sherlock.  
M_

_Why am I here?  
SH_

Now Mycroft let full reign to relieved amusement.

_Ah, the supposed consolations of philosophy. Middle age imminent, is it? But then, forty is just around the corner.  
M_

_You'd know about the decrepitude of middle age.  
SH_

Mycroft was pleased to see the relatively low venom level in his brother's taunts; it meant he was unlikely to be high.

_Returning to old haunts?  
SH_

“The point, finally,” Mycroft muttered as he typed his response.

_?  
M_

_Oxford  
SH_

Mycroft sat back in his chair, mobile and brother ignored as his mind grabbed that piece of data and ran with it.

Oxford. Why Oxford? What, or most likely _who_ was in Oxford? Then a slip of the tongue, a surprise appearance at a meeting, and a passing reference came together in the front of his mind and collectively waved for attention.

_Not my decision. Good luck with it, though.  
M_

Mycroft was not surprised to receive no response. Sherlock would, he knew, interpret this assignment as abandonment (as he did whenever anyone denied him something), but Mycroft knew now that the waters of this case had suddenly become choppier.

The obvious conclusion to be drawn from Sherlock being handed over to Deborah Oppenheimer, of all people, was that Sherlock was to be taken over entirely by MI5. Mycroft would no longer have any oversight of his brother, on the one hand a relief and on the other a source of concern that bordered on the vertigo-inducing. He wondered if MI5 would attempt to bar him from all aspects of Sherlock's work.

From the point of view of someone who didn't know Sherlock well, Oppenheimer could be an inspired choice: handing a drug addict over to a psychiatrist for supervision. What little Mycroft knew of Doctor Oppenheimer's brief, long-past, career as a field operative spoke to an idiosyncratic approach to operations and an almost pathological abhorrence of authority figures. On the surface, the match could be seen as an obvious one, but Mycroft feared that the woman's unconventionality might encourage Sherlock's more dangerous impulses and make no effort to curb his flight into whatever drug-induced fancies caught his attention. The last thing Sherlock needed in his life was someone else who turned a blind eye to his excesses.

However, Mycroft knew that no conventional agent, no matter how skilled or experienced, would be able to keep up with or engage Sherlock's attention, the reason why he'd reported to Mycroft in the first place. So he resolved to fight his instincts to intervene, and—for the time being—watch and wait, and prepare to pick up the pieces should it all fall apart.

~ + ~

Mycroft waved Lestrade into the chair in front of his desk. 

“How's Sherlock doing?” Lestrade asked as he sat.

“Much as you would expect. Somewhat manic at the reprieve and yet entirely unchastened by it.”

Lestrade chuckled. “What's next? With Sherlock?”

“Presumably he will be presented with this new puzzle to solve. And once that is done, I imagine MI6 will find some other equally fatal mission for him to take on.” Mycroft didn't bother trying to hide his bitterness. 

“He's using again, isn't he?”

Mycroft gave the man a level stare. “Yes, for some time now, I'm afraid. Unfortunately, the political situation is such that I will not be able to be as involved with Sherlock as I would like—”

Lestrade dropped his head into his hands for a few seconds before sitting up again. “We all dropped the ball on that one. We should have known—”

“Do not blame yourself, Lestrade. I knew it was a risk and allowed myself to be distracted, as well. Ultimately, Sherlock must be held accountable for his decisions to return to his self-destructive behaviour. But he will be vulnerable while this case is ongoing, regardless of what he thinks about it as a distraction from his underlying drug problem.”

“I'll keep an eye out.”

“Thank you. I had hoped that you would be able to do so.”

Lestrade nodded and again, Mycroft had cause to give thanks that there was at least one person on the planet besides himself that apparently Sherlock hadn't managed to alienate entirely. “Things are very— No one appears to know what will happen next. Such circumstances often bring out the worst in people. Unfortunately, there are a number of games in play at the moment and Sherlock is likely to get caught in the middle of them. One of my goals is to ensure he doesn't become collateral damage.”

“Someone making a play against you?”

“There are always games in play against me. Don't waste a moment's thought on the matter.”

“Wasn't planning to. I wouldn't bet against you, though.”

Mycroft gave him a tight little smile in acknowledgement. “It is almost a surety that there will be attempts at hampering my communications with Sherlock. I will need means of circumventing those efforts.”

“I've got no problem being go-between.”

“Thank you; that was my hope. However, I anticipate that some time in the next few days you will be ordered to cease communication with me.”

“We'll work around that.”

“You may also be ordered to have no communication with Sherlock. That will be significantly more difficult to circumvent, especially secure communication.”

Lestrade frowned. “Why cut him off from people who can help him with the Moriarty business if that's why they brought him back?”

“The people in question likely feel that isolating Sherlock will make him easier to control.” Mycroft gambled that the man's trustworthiness meant that he had a trusting nature and would swallow the egregious lie. And for the other man's sake, Mycroft hoped he would not have to abuse that trust too frequently before this enterprise was over.

“They're idiots if they think that.”

“Let me assure you, Lestrade, that they are nothing of the kind. Misguided, yes. But most definitely not idiots.”

“Still—”

Mycroft held up a hand to cut off the other man's arguments. “I am more concerned about any efforts to keep Sherlock from the Watsons.”

“I thought you weren't— Well, you don't like John and Mary.”

“My personal opinion of the Watsons is irrelevant. As you know, I've always had concerns about John's influence on Sherlock; the man has been a mixed blessing, to say the least. And the less said about Mary Watson the better. No, cutting Sherlock off from John Watson could cause him to fall even deeper into his addictions.” _And John Watson abandoning his promises in less than twenty-four hours does not speak highly of his concern for Sherlock_ , Mycroft thought to himself, then continued. “He is still— He has yet to adjust to the changes in his life since the Watsons' marriage. He is an expert in denial, as you know. Further alienation on that front could worsen his state of mind. And if that happens, MI5 will deem him irrevocably broken and discard him. I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Yeah, if they don't let him work the way he wants to—”

“He will not refuse to work on this case. No, the lure of anything that might be related to Moriarty is too strong. But he must have access to the people that he trusts. And that includes you, Lestrade. Not just John Watson.”

“I'll do what I can. But how do we keep the channels open if he's being controlled that tightly?”

“We try to ensure the leash is kept as long as possible. Sherlock will do everything in his power to sabotage our efforts, and there must not be so much as a hint that I am trying to direct things or—”

“Or Sherlock gets his flounce on.”

 _And he won't be the only one_. “Yes. A colourful, but not inaccurate description.”

“I'll do what I can.”

“I know. And I appreciate it more than I can say. But if you're pressured to leave Sherlock alone, you must. You are not to endanger your position at the Met. And there will be many people outside the force involving themselves behind the scenes.”

“Wasn't planning to.”

“Good.”

Consensus reached, they watched each other across Mycroft's desk. Lestrade was his usual slightly rumpled, relaxed self, unflinching under Mycroft's examination. Mycroft rarely allowed himself to wonder at the tremendous luck of Sherlock's becoming attached to the man. While Sherlock considered John Watson his one true friend, Lestrade was the man who had undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. On more occasions than he knew, often without even knowing he was doing so. But one of the many things Mycroft hoped for in this enterprise was that Lestrade came out of it unscathed. And from a purely selfish point of view, the thought of Lestrade—the only person other than John Watson that Sherlock would accept help from—out of his brother's life almost paralyzed Mycroft with fear. He'd come to rely on the man too much, though he acknowledged that he had little choice.

“Have you seen the Watsons since Christmas?” Mycroft broke the uncomfortable silence.

“No. John's been avoiding me. Probably afraid of blabbing something about what happened at Appledore.”

“That does not surprise me. Well, him finally acknowledging his appalling lack of skills in dissimulation does surprise me. He's a stubborn fellow. But I fear that the events of Christmas have had a considerable effect on John. I think it may force him to reassess his relationship with Sherlock. He has always vastly overestimated Sherlock's coping skills and underestimated his capriciousness. I think Christmas opened his eyes somewhat to the Sherlock we both know, but whom John has never seen.”

“John's probably already got a raft of excuses and justifications all lined up.”

“Perhaps. In the immediate aftermath, I agree. But now that he is home again with his wife, with the child's arrival imminent, I think his perspective will change. I hope that he does not pull back from Sherlock entirely; my brother would feel the loss keenly and we know all too well what his response would be. Has been already.”

“John would never abandon Sherlock. Especially if he thought he was in trouble. Mary, too.”

“I like to think John would manage the matter with at least a little delicacy, but what I know of the man indicates that is extremely unlikely. If he is presented with the choice between his friendship with Sherlock and the safety of his family, well, you know as well as I on which side the choice would fall. As it should.”

“I hope you're being too pessimistic.”

“I learnt many years ago not to place any faith in 'hoping for the best', Lestrade. Preparation and dedicated action are much more reliable allies.”

~ + ~

**Monday, January 5**

“He's not doing well, is he?”

Andrea's sympathetic tone surprised Mycroft; she'd never before hidden her disdain for the Prime Minister when it was just her and Mycroft in the room.

“No one's given him any information, and he's never been able to hide his anger when people question his judgement. He's too accustomed to pronouncements, followed by unquestioning obedience.”

The two of them watched the scrum in front of No10 wind down, with none of the participants satisfied. The BBC reporter's wind-up comments about the complete absence of substantive information about the broadcast hacking two days before began to shade into the pedantically vituperative. And to Mycroft's dismay, if not his surprise, the commentary turned to Sherlock. About how he had yet to comment on the “Moriarty situation”, and how no one was willing to confirm or deny that Sherlock would be involved in the investigation.

“Your brother hasn't gone out since he returned home from the Watsons' last night.”

“Yes, and promptly de-bugged the flat again.” Mycroft didn't want to think this was the result of anything other than Sherlock's ordinary pique. He tried to not see behind it the desire to hide ongoing drug use. Not that Sherlock needed that excuse to subvert his brother's efforts to keep watch over him, but Mycroft couldn't help but imagine it.

He glanced at the time displayed on his computer screen. “Please ask Miss Puri to come in.”

When the three of them were settled around Mycroft's desk, Puri launched into the report of her team's progress since the previous afternoon.

“Well, the obvious choice of source would be China or Russia, but my instincts are, um.” Puri paused to gather her thoughts and Mycroft wondered why she hadn't done so before she came to him. “There's no economic advantage here, so that pretty much rules out the Chinese. There's no state or commercial secrets at risk. The method doesn't correspond to anything we've ever seen from the Russians, but of course that's not decisive. It could be a new group or a breakaway splinter of the Russian army or the mafia, but we've never received any intelligence that that might be going on over there. And again, no money in play that we can see, so that pretty much indicates not the mob.” She paused again and Mycroft wondered if she'd finally come to the end of her stream-of consciousness blathering. He'd have to speak to Andrea about giving the woman instructions on better preparation for meetings. “This is going to sound weird. But my instincts tell me this is Americans.”

“Americans.” Mycroft's heart sank. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“The— the sense of humour, I guess. I mean, it's like— A fraternity prank. That kind of humour, or maybe trying to pass itself off as just a prank. A stupid prank that doesn't do anything but get attention for itself, so you can brag to your friends, 'Hey, look what I did, I'm all over the news,' type of thing—”

Mycroft held up his hand to stem the torrent of nervous verbiage. He turned to Andrea.

She shrugged a little. “It's a good point.”

“That American endeavour is characterised by stupid pranks?”

“Jackass,” Andrea replied.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Nothing, sir. An American television program.”

Mycroft glanced between the two women as they shared a look. “Ah. Popular culture.”

“We don't have any hard evidence yet, sir. And we might not get it, at least not without help from the Americans. Even if we track it to their front door, it might just be another proxy. They'd have to confirm it originated there.”

“Thank you, Miss Puri.”

The woman stood and gave them each a nod and left. Mycroft turned back to Andrea. “Do you concur with Miss Puri's assessment?”

“I think her instincts are good as a general rule; that's why I recommended her for the job.”

“Yes, but her data-gathering leaves much to be desired.” Mycroft returned his attention to his computer. His curated news feed scrolled along one side of the screen. “What's the popular view of this?”

Andrea consulted her phone. “The chatter so far is mixed. Some rather wild speculation but no consensus yet in terms of which direction the conspiracy theories will go.”

“How much of the chatter is about Sherlock?”

“About thirty-five percent so far. Trending upwards, though. It's not helping that he's refusing to speak to the press. They're desperate to make a story out of it, so they're digging up the old Rich Brook nonsense as filler, but it's gaining some traction. We should see some coalition around two or three principal conspiracy theories by the end of the day. One will likely focus on your brother. This should dominate social media originating in Britain for another 24 to 48 hours, unless there's a major celebrity event to distract the public sooner. It will die down soon regardless, unless there's another event that appears to be linked to Moriarty.”

“And if that happens in the next 24 hours, there will be widespread panic.” Mycroft watched events unfold on the computer. A message popped up. “Do we know yet what approach the Prime Minister will take in his next press conference?”

“No word yet, but it will likely be the usual. Downing Street has been close-mouthed about it all. There's been no gossip at all from that direction.”

Of the two possibilities, that Downing Street had finally managed to get their staff to keep their mouths shut, or that they'd been ordered to keep Mycroft's office in the dark, Mycroft suspected the latter to be more likely. It was starting. The cutting-out that he'd seen start on Saturday afternoon in the Prime Minister's office. Someone was trying to take advantage of what they perceived to be his vulnerability. He was going to have to put a stop to that, or every enterprise he began in an effort to save Sherlock and get to the bottom of the “Moriarty situation” would be stillborn.

“Do you concur with Miss Puri's entirely unsupported analysis of the source, based on the 'sense of humour'?”

“It is tenuous—”

“It is not tenuous, it is useless.” Mycroft knew he shouldn't snap at her; it wasn't her fault that Puri was not performing to expectations, even if Andrea had recommended the woman for the position.

“Have you heard anything from your CIA contacts?”

“People are being remarkably closed-mouthed about anything to do with Magnussen.” Chasing after his former colleagues to request assistance with tracing the source of the broadcast hack was going to be seen as begging, and Mycroft was not looking forward to having to do it. But he couldn't leave it to Blythe; the last thing Mycroft needed was the man gunning for his job to get direct access to some of his most valuable contacts.

Again, he couldn't help being angry at the ingratitude. Yes, the CIA had paid him handsomely for the work he'd done for them over the years, but he didn't think professional courtesy too much to expect, as well.

~ + ~

The behaviour of the staff was, as always, impeccable. Courteous, of course. Deferential to the most infinitely refined degree of calculation, based on a set of unwritten professional algorithms known only to the staff. Mycroft himself had never cracked in all his years as a member of the Diogenes Club. Even his finely tuned observational skills were unable to discern any difference in how he was treated. As soon as he entered the library, though, he knew the word was out. Blythe had ensured that Sherlock's actions and Mycroft's failure to stop them were known across the highest level of government and the usual Diogenes climate of restraint was overlaid with a noticeable _froideur_ the moment Mycroft entered the room.

As he took a seat near the centre of the room and picked up a copy of _The Times_ , he felt his heart sink. Of all the things Sherlock had taken from him, this loss would be the most significant. The prospect of being deprived of his sanctuary, the place truest to his heart and nature, even in the short term, was more painful than Mycroft would have suspected.

To anyone not familiar with the capriciousness of power and the delicate undercurrents by which it was communicated, nothing would appear to be out of ordinary: a room full of middle-aged and older, formally-dressed gentlemen silently reading. But the shunning would start here, with a chill in the library. Then would come the whispers in the committee rooms. If the fall-out from the Magnussen situation wasn't resolved soon, even his membership would be at risk and the loss of it didn't bear thinking about, especially considering his dependence on the site for his most-used unofficial base of operations. 

It was a deliberate affront. The kind of behind the scenes assault that had brought down many seemingly unassailable men before him, demonstrating the classic play of the political operator. But Mycroft was beyond (even if perhaps in his methods not exactly _above_ ) politics. A realisation came to mind that brought a faint smile to his face. Blythe was playing Mycroft's game. Not only did the man want Mycroft's position and power, he wanted to claim Mycroft's masteries as well. Mycroft leant back in his chair and snapped the newspaper open, a thin smile appearing on his face for a moment. They would see if the mimic was up to the standard of the master. The headache that had been clamped around the back of his head since that morning's meeting with Blythe and Lady Smallwood began to ease.

As he appeared to make his way through _The Times_ , the principal components of his mind worked on the various issues confronting him, most particularly the fallout from the Magnussen situation. Now that the “Moriarty” panic was beginning to subside, he could focus his attention again on Sherlock and the threats to him.

Mycroft knew that he was going to have to broach the subject with some of his old contacts at the CIA, many of them the very men that had been willing to sit back and watch Mycroft and MI6 deliver Sherlock straight to them. For there was no doubt that they would have picked him up in Kosovo within 24 hours of Sherlock arriving there, to be whisked off to a black site for torture and possible execution. The irony of it had not been lost on Mycroft, considering the work he had done with the CIA facilitating the development of some of those very sites. As his eyes roamed over the tiny black text and his body went through the motions of turning pages, his mind flowed over the game-branched possibilities of approaches he could make, forcing himself to focus on the tiniest details of each branch in order to stave off the seductive rage that threatened to distract him. None of the alternatives were ideal. Some of them he eliminated as likely collaborators in the plan to place Sherlock under rendition. At the far edges of his consciousness he forced himself to ignore the crawling anxiety in the pit of his stomach. 

One corner of his mind he allowed to work on the issue of his likely surveillance by the CIA. It had been so long he could barely remember the last time he'd been prey rather than hunter and if the circumstances had been different he might have relished the novelty of it. The fact that no one on his staff had brought up the matter of surveillance with him did seem to hint that either his staff was being remarkably lax with his security (unlikely), were allowing themselves to be overly distracted by the “Moriarty” business (slightly less unlikely), or that one of the senior members of his staff had strayed (unfortunate, possibly quite destructive, but somewhat likely). Mycroft liked to think he screened his staff well, but it was never possible to forecast the future behaviour of anyone with complete accuracy, especially people as intelligent and ambitious as the ones he hired.

As he sat in the comfortable club chair, Mycroft let his consciousness expand outwards into the room: the slightly fusty smell of newsprint, leather, furniture polish, old money, and ambitions banked down for the evening. The familiar cocoon and armour. 

It was all connected: Moriarty, Magnussen, MI6, the CIA, Sherlock, and every mundane but important issue; each represented a node on the spiderweb of Mycroft's working world. And at the centre of it was the Diogenes, his real workplace and sanctuary. He would not give this up. Not without a fight.

~ + ~

**Tuesday, January 6**

Another meeting with his staff resulted in nothing more than another case of frustration. While the rest of them filed out of Mycroft's office, Andrea remained behind. She'd brought him nothing that morning. Nothing that spoke of the signature attention-seeking immaturity that characterised the video and the dead man that it purported to represent. Mycroft stared out the window as Andrea waited.

“What is your estimation of the truth in what the Met has given us?” Mycroft turned his attention to her.

“I think it's likely true they don't know anything. They have no motive to play down any incidents. It's always in their interest to exaggerate threats.”

Mycroft wondered when she'd decided he had developed an appetite for the obvious. “They're most likely following MI5's lead on the matter.” There. That would serve her right. She didn't quite manage to hide the flinch as she ducked her head down, pretending to check her phone.

“Of course.”

The true peril of being at the centre of the web was being cut off from all directions at once. Mycroft refused to believe they were in free-fall. Not yet. There was no point in discussing it, even though his mind would not desist in spinning out the scenarios of why and how it would be happening. Knowing that data existed, knowing that it was being withheld from him, ordinarily annoying in the extreme, would soon become dangerous.

“Sir. There is always the possibility that nothing has happened.”

“Of course. Considering the party responsible appears to be aping Moriarty's methods, and the man's insatiable desire for attention, I can't imagine there will be much doubt about when they act again.”

“And there's been nothing of interest.”

“Only crime, intrigue, and human folly in their usual abundance. But nothing that appears related, no.”

Andrea looked up from her phone. “Should I set aside time in your calendar for your brother?”

Such an innocuous question, Mycroft thought. So pregnant with potential minefields. “Not at the moment.”

They watched each other for a second before she dropped her gaze back to her mobile. “Of course, sir.”

Mycroft forced himself not to imagine he heard disappointment in her voice. He wondered if she had deduced his suspicions. She must have known, though, that her slip before the New Year about Deborah Oppenheimer would not go unnoticed. He tried to prevent his mind from becoming too attached to the notion that perhaps the slip had been intentional. That it had been her way of letting him know that she had been approached, offered an opportunity to stray, and that by letting him know, she was telling him that she had declined it. Because down that path lay the blindness of self-deception, fatal in his line of work.

Regardless, someone had told her that Oppenheimer would be at that meeting in December and Mycroft wanted to know who and why, if for no other reason than that he wanted to know who in the security services was in the habit of gossiping about Mycroft's business.

But until he had some sort of proof that there was a leak in his security, he had to continue on as if he suspected nothing. And seeing Andrea so set down upset him for some reason, so he extended an olive branch.

“Has Mrs Fraser's team managed to get back into Baker Street yet?”

“Not since yesterday.”

Sherlock had, of course, removed all the surveillance cameras (three sets in four days, Mycroft mused) immediately upon returning from the Watsons' the previous evening. With more than a hint of _Schadenfreude_ , Mycroft suspected that Sherlock and Mary had probably removed all of MI5s bugs in the Watsons' flat, and Mycroft could imagine Blythe fuming over the loss of his surveillance capabilities.

Mycroft had the sneaking suspicion he would, by necessity, have to become accustomed to being blinded in this way, as well. He tried to convince himself, again, that it didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock was still using. But what Mycroft _had_ managed to observe of Sherlock's behaviour since Saturday had not reassured him. Sherlock's initial excitement had transformed into an alarming lethargy, and Mycroft hoped that it was only Sherlock's upcoming meeting in Oxford that was the cause. For Sherlock had always vociferously resisted Mycroft's efforts to have him work more closely with the security services. Sherlock's situation, shoved unceremoniously into the arms of MI5, would be more than enough to send him into a tremendous sulk. Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock's anger would burn brighter than his despair, for that _might_ keep him sober in the face of the changes that were about to happen in his life.

~ + ~

By the time Lestrade showed up, Mycroft was exhausted. The constant briefings, trying to keep an eye on Sherlock while blind half the time, and worrying about the consequences of John Watson being so standoffish with Sherlock, all while watching his own authority begin to slip away, was beginning to take its toll.

Andrea's confirmation of what Mycroft had gleaned from his text conversation with Sherlock two days before weighted heavily on his mind. While the manoeuvring behind the scenes that had resulted in Blythe's choice for Sherlock's new handler were child's play to navigate, the reality of what that choice meant only added to Mycroft's worries. Not that he was surprised to see Blythe make a play against Sherlock as an indirect attack on Mycroft; if the roles had been reversed, Mycroft would have done exactly the same.

As Lestrade gave him a brief update on the goings-on at the Met in relation to the broadcast hack (nothing of any use), Mycroft nodded and questioned and with a small part of his brain observed and engaged. The much greater part of his mind was reviewing everything he knew about Deborah Oppenheimer, most of which he'd had Andrea dig out of the various archives after her first mention of the psychiatrist in December.

Eventually, Lestrade didn't have anything left to say and the man was surreptitiously glancing at his watch every minute and a half.

“I'm sure if you contact your friend, she won't mind if you're a few minutes late.” Mycroft tried to sound kind, but Lestrade's look across the desk told him just how wide of the mark he'd been.

“Not tonight.”

Mycroft wasn't sure if the statement was a request to not bring up Lestrade's personal life, or a simple correction of fact. Based on the man's tone, Mycroft assumed the former.

“And no one at the Met has had contact with Sherlock?”

“You know no one's contacted him. Until he gets out from under MI5, no one at the Met's going to risk pissing them off, so they're going to steer clear. Even then, no one at the Met is going to work with him, possibly ever again, not with his history.”

“Someone doesn't want you involved.”

“Well, technically, it's commercial crime, so not our division. But based on the scale, we _could_ claim it, but that would have to be approved above me.”

“And you don't want it.”

“Don't want anywhere near it. This stinks of politics, so no way. It's a career-killer, a case like this. And for what? You're never going to catch who did it.”

Mycroft gave the man a small smile. “An astute observation, Chief Inspector. Politics imbue this case to its foundations. And I'm afraid those politics will touch Sherlock in ways that will significantly hamper his ability to investigate it.”

Lestrade sighed and settled back into the chair; he was apparently reconciled to a long delay to his liaison. “Secret squirrel civil war?”

Mycroft couldn't help a chuckle. “Something like that.”

“And Sherlock caught in the crossfire.”

“Sherlock has been positioned deliberately in the crossfire, I believe in an effort to hamper his effectiveness.”

“Why? Isn't he supposed to solve it?”

“You're thinking like a policeman, Lestrade.” At the other man's grimace, Mycroft continued in what he hoped were mollifying tones. “That was not meant as a criticism. You believe that when a threat arises, all should pull together to neutralise it and apprehend the culprit. That is the policeman's viewpoint. That is _not_ the mentality of the politician, as you know. And as you know, politics drives Whitehall as much as it does Westminster.”

“So someone's using Sherlock to have a go at you.”

“Not the first time, and I regret to say, probably not the last.” Mycroft paused and let the other man take that in for a second. “Sherlock's plan to murder Charles Augustus Magnussen, however politically useful in the long run has, in the short term at least, left a number of people politically vulnerable. People who do not appreciate outsiders upsetting their carefully-constructed stratagems. And in this country we do try to pretend to our allies to not be savages, at least in our own territory. Sherlock has upset a number of apple carts with that act of what I'm sure he considers 'clean-up'.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade stare at his hands, clenched together on his lap. “And they're going to send him away again after he solves this video thing?”

“That is the current plan.”

Lestrade returned to staring at his hands. After half a minute or so, he met Mycroft's eyes again and Mycroft was not surprised to see sadness on the other man's face. Mycroft had never understood his brother's ability to attract so many sentimentalists to his cause; they were always disappointed in the end. But he said nothing as Lestrade continued to struggle for a response.

“And this political thing that's going on, someone wants to make sure Sherlock doesn't solve the hacking case. He's not going to deal with that well.”

“No, he will not.”

“He's going to need to feel productive. If he isn't allowed to work—”

“I was hoping you would be able to assist in that regard.”

“I can't bring him in on any Met cases.”

“I realise, yes. Cold cases, if challenging enough, could act as a stop-gap.”

“Until you sort out the political stuff so he can work on the hacking case.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I could probably swing that. There's a few really tricky older ones I've always wanted him to take a look at. Perfect opportunity, now.”

“Might I make a suggestion?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“The James Robichaud murder.” On hearing the name, Lestrade looked surprised, then suspicious. Mycroft could tell he wanted to ask how Mycroft knew about that particular case, but restrained himself and Mycroft wondered again at how this man had achieved his current position with his poor sense of discretion. Perhaps standards among policemen were just lower. “I'd appreciate it if you could send that one his way, as well.”

Lestrade's expression shifted to almost sullen and Mycroft hoped his suspicions as to why were incorrect. “Why that one?”

“I believe it may be connected to another case in which Sherlock was involved. Beyond solving James Robichaud's murder, I would like Sherlock to verify or disprove that possible connection.”

“All right; I can throw that one on the pile.”

“And I hope I don't need to tell you, no cases with any political implications, Lestrade.”

The man gave Mycroft his best “Despite what you and your brother think, I'm not a complete idiot” look, and Mycroft replied with a thin smile in acknowledgement. “I have one other request.” Mycroft tore a page out of his pocket diary and wrote a name on it, folded the paper, and handed it to Lestrade. “Please enclose this in one of the files. You should perhaps not read it yourself.”

“Passing notes in class. Always ends in tears,” the man said with a rueful smile as he tucked the paper into his pocket.

“But in this case, I play the role of teacher.”

“Bit of a step down from God, I bet.”

“You have no idea,” Mycroft replied, allowing a hint of humour into his voice, to send the man off home with a stronger sense of hope than Mycroft was able to acknowledge himself.

~ + ~

**Wednesday, January 7**

_Why him, and why now?_

Mycroft scanned the most recent “analysis” in _The Times_ of the broadcast hacking, expecting little more than another stage in the progress from the media-induced panic through confusion and moral anguish to fake protestations of offence at the government's inaction. While he wasn't surprised that the press had decided to turn their knives in Sherlock's direction, he was dismayed at the tone of it: an attempted assassination of Sherlock's character amid just-this-side-of-slander accusations of fraud and delusional narcissism even greater than those his brother actually possessed. 

As Mycroft pored over the article, he was dismayed to see the events of Saturday presented in the worst possible light for Sherlock. He was accused, in essence if not explicitly, of having concocted the “Moriarty video” himself, finding a way to hack into the entire broadcast system “with the assistance of allies in the government and the Metropolitan Police Services” in order to create wide-spread panic solely in order to seek greater fame for “solving” the case. It was a recycling of the accusation Sgt Donovan had made against Sherlock in the disappearance of Ambassador Bruhl's children, which had lead to Sherlock's fake suicide. Mycroft couldn't help but think that if this was what _The Times_ had descended to, perhaps Sherlock was right and Mycroft should start getting his news from Twitter, as well. He brought up _The Guardian_ site and as he read their daily report on the lack of progress in the investigation, he noticed a similar shift in tone from the previous day. They obviously sensed the public mood was turning and the press was baring its teeth. Regardless, Mycroft mused, that afternoon's briefing was going to be interesting

And so it turned out to be.

The lack of progress by MI5 on finding who was behind the broadcast hack had made the Prime Minister particularly red-faced and peevish. Mycroft contented himself with sitting back and watching Cartwright from GCHQ lead Blythe a merry dance. While Mycroft agreed that Cartwright's point about MI5's inferior resources and expertise was not without merit, there was no question of allowing GCHQ anywhere near leadership of the investigation. The paperwork alone would cause it to grind to a halt in less than a day.

So as the posturing and politely restrained chest-thumping reached their crescendos Mycroft asked, in the most benign tones he could muster, “Have you been able to determine which companies were attacked with the help of insiders?”

Every head turned as one to the end of the table where he sat, hands folded on his lap, his expression as placid as his tones. Across the table, Lady Smallwood's left eye twitched as she fought to retain her usual perfect composure.

“I distinctly remember saying 'no hoarding intel',” the Prime Minister finally replied, in the sulking voice that always made Mycroft fantasise about setting the man on fire.

“Until this morning, we had only rumours, not 'intel',” he replied, whispering a hint of contempt over the last word. “We were not able to confirm the rumours until today, and I thought it best to inform the entire group together. More efficient to keep everyone on the same page.”

“And from where did you receive this information?” Blythe asked, the words as honed as the blade Mycroft knew the man was desperate to plunge into his career.

“From the companies themselves. Traditional intelligence work showing its worth,” Myrcoft added, directing the last words to Cartwright, whose scowl darkened. “Not that bulk intercept doesn't have its place, but—” He gave the tiniest shrug. “Sometimes good old-fashioned legwork still gives the most useful results.”

He could tell that Lady Smallwood was maintaining a straight face only through the greatest of efforts. Even Blythe smirked a little at Cartwright's discomforture. On this (probably the only) point, Mycroft and Blythe were in perfect agreement.

“So they volunteered this information, that their own staff helped the hackers in the door?” the Home Secretary asked, obviously sceptical.

“On the condition of anonymity, of course. The press love nothing better than getting one over on their competitors, and this information would ruin more than a few careers.” Mycroft turned to the Prime Minister. “And would embarrass friends of the government.” Mycroft watched, secretly gleeful, as the realisation of who he'd been talking about popped into the brains of the people around the table, from Blythe and Lady Smallwood first to Cartwright and the Foreign Secretary last. Mycroft was surprised to see the Prime Minister catch on as quickly as he did; but then, Mycroft suspected that Murdoch was never far from the front of the PM's mind.

“And yet you still kept the information to yourself,” Blythe said, still making exploratory jabs at the armature of Mycroft's argument. 

“Rumour, not information, until today. In this climate, spreading rumours as fact is highly irresponsible. Don't you agree, Prime Minister?” It was a slightly desperate ploy; Mycroft didn't expect much success with it, and he wasn't wrong. The PM's expression did not waver from “disgruntled bully”. “And we didn't want to cause an uproar by releasing the existence of these rumours to the press until we had confirmation.”

“Your staff have been busy,” the Foreign Secretary drawled, finally joining in the conversation. “Doing MI5's job for them. I hope this means your real work isn't—” 

Mycroft couldn't help bristling at the accusation, but he directed his answer to the man nominally in charge of the meeting. “If I remember your words correctly, Prime Minister, this matter was to be 'top priority' for everyone.”

The man didn't reply for a few seconds, during which time he shifted in his chair, his expression increasingly contorted. As if he were attempting to add three four-digit numbers in his head, Mycroft thought.

“Yes, and you were also told that MI5 was leading the investigation. You should have passed on any and all information immediately. We can't have you haring off on your own, getting into god knows what. Bad enough your brother's got us into this mess with the Americans; we don't need you getting everyone riled up even more than they already are.”

The room was deathly silent and everyone around the table quite pointedly did not look to Mycroft for his reaction. For a split second Mycroft did not know _how_ to react. He had been scolded. By the _Prime Minister_. The least powerful person in the room thought he could get away with schooling _Mycroft Holmes_ on how to run an intelligence operation. He could barely countenance the fact that he'd just been “put in his place” by the slack-jawed, ape-brained, pig-fucking _nobody_ , the up-jumped _spad_ , who assumed he could kick Mycroft in company and face no consequences. And in that moment, Mycroft had to acknowledge that right there and then, the feckless pig-fucker was probably correct. But Mycroft knew he wouldn't always be, and it was that thought that held his tongue and for a moment turned his eyes to flint, as a subtle reminder to the half-witted figurehead that nothing in the world spins faster than the wheel of political fortunes.

~ + ~

**Thursday, January 8**

When he entered Lady Smallwood's office, Mycroft was glad to see that she was alone. After he took a seat, she poured tea and they exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes. Mycroft expected Blythe to appear at any moment, but it seemed that he was to be spared that indignity, at least. For he knew what this meeting was going to be about: how exactly he was going down. At least the woman had the good grace to give him the news to his face rather than letting him deduce it from the slights and snubs of others and the subtle, inexorable decline in his authority.

She put her cup and saucer on the low table between them and gave him what he assumed she hoped was a look of sympathetic concern. “I imagine I don't have to tell you why I wanted to speak with you, Mycroft.”

“Perhaps clarity from the outset might be best.” There was no way he was going to let her weasel out of it; she was going to have to say the words.

She pursed her lips slightly, knowing exactly what he meant. “There have been a number of conversations over the last few days about to what will happen with your brother.”

“Yes.” _Conversations I have not been a party to. Wonderful._

“He's been assigned to one of Sir Edwin's people. Someone he considers completely trustworthy.”

“I don't believe trustworthiness is the principal factor in determining who Sherlock should work with, if you want to get anything useful out of him.” He waved a hand at her consternation. “But I'm sure Sir Edwin knows best how to manage his operations.”

She knew him well enough to know what he meant by that, of course, and she gave him a look that communicated a sort of maternal disappointment. “You must stand back from this, Mycroft. At least in the short term, for your sake as much as his.”

“Yes, I know.” He took a sip of tea and forced his irritation down into his gut, to take up residence with the fear and disappointment that had been fermenting there since Christmas. “Who will be handling him? Or am I not allowed to ask?” he continued when he saw her expression change.

She twirled her teacup around in its saucer for a few seconds, avoiding his eyes. “Deborah Oppenheimer.”

For the last few days, Mycroft had wondered if anyone would have the decency to admit what would happen with Sherlock, even though Mycroft already knew the main points. “Ah. I thought that might be the case.”

She had obviously been expecting a different response from him, and she looked relieved. Mycroft's estimation of her declined a few degrees, if she thought he would be happy with his brother being assigned to a virtual amateur who hadn't worked in the field for more than twenty-five years and had never distinguished herself when she had. He was also disappointed that she thought he hadn't managed to deduce this for himself already, based on the psychiatrist's presence at the meeting where Sherlock's fate had been decided.

“You don't think much of the arrangement.”

Mycroft couldn't tell if the statement had been meant as a question, but decided to treat it as one. “Not particularly. She's reasonably intelligent and her—” He paused to refill his teacup from the pot on the table between them. “Idiosyncratic sense of humour might keep him entertained for an hour or two. I'd have thought he deserved better, considering everything he's done for us. All of us.” He flashed the woman a quick, piercing look that she caught and appeared to interpret correctly. 

“Yes, well.” Mycroft was glad to see she looked slightly abashed. “I believe the consensus was that if he's to be effective in dealing with this situation, his handler must be able to cope with his particular—” She paused and gave him an apologetic look. “You know better than anyone that no regular agent would be able to work with him, keep him on track. Deborah is, if I'm to be frank, a strange woman. The hope is that her perspective on things will make her a more sympathetic partner for Sherlock. The matter was the subject of considerable debate.”

“I don't doubt it.” He gave a quiet, wry chuckle at the thought.

“You've been working on tracing the video?”

Mycroft started at Lady Smallwood's voice. “Yes. With only moderate success. There has been no appreciable progress since my last briefing.”

She sighed. “I wish I understood the technology better. But there's only so many hours in the day. Best left to the youngsters who understand it all.”

“There are a number of possibilities we're pursuing.”

“As I would expect.” Lady Smallwood sat upright in her chair and pulled her shoulders back in a gesture long familiar to Mycroft. She was summoning reserves to prepare for something distasteful. “There has been interest expressed in some quarters about you taking on another project. Now that you won't have your brother under your wing.”

“Oh.” Mycroft didn't like the sound of this, but was not surprised. After all, his descent needed to be accompanied by at least a few kicks to allow the middling orders to feel they were getting something out of it. “In some quarters” likely meant Blythe, and anything he sent Mycroft's way was sure to be the definitive poisoned chalice.

“You know that the Morans' divorce is almost complete.”

Mycroft's heart sank. “I had heard that she initiated the divorce after his arrest. I haven't given it any thought since, I must admit.” Not much, anyway, beyond gleefully speculating how Blythe's people had somehow managed not to get a single scrap of useful information out of the woman regarding her husband's activities over the last twenty years. 

“There is still some interest in ensuring she remains in England.”

“I can't imagine why. I was under the impression her professional interests had evolved considerably over the years and she was no longer considered a priority.”

“Yes, there had been a consensus developing that we would allow her to go home if she wished once the divorce was final. But opinion changed this week, as you can imagine. We'd prefer now to keep her close and it would be best if she were convinced to remain where she is.”

Mycroft suddenly had a terrible premonition of where the conversation was going. “I don't imagine she plans on going anywhere until her children are independent. The girl must be only fourteen or fifteen, though the boy would be at university by now, I believe.”

“Some people feel she might have some value in future investigations. And she's a loose end. You know how the government feels about loose ends.”

He gave her a non-committal half-shrug that he hoped expressed a barely-repressed disdain for the very idea of Christina Moran's possessing any possible future value to the British government, military or intelligence services. The slight, dismissive wave that accompanied it, he was glad to see, was accomplished without his hand shaking at all.

Lady Smallwood took a sip of tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the table. She gave him a level stare and waited for him to make the call. Mycroft mused that she would be waiting until the End of Days for him to come forward and volunteer for this particular mission. She was damned well going to have to order him. 

Mycroft crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. He gave her a level stare back. He occupied himself during the wait with speculating again how Andrea had known that Doctor Oppenheimer had been at the meeting where Sherlock's fate had been officially decided. He allowed himself to hope that it had been Lady Smallwood that had let that information slip to his assistant, rather than someone with more malign or unknowable motives. Andrea was a remarkably resourceful young woman—one of the reasons why she was Mycroft's assistant—but he wasn't comfortable with the fact that he didn't always know where her information came from. Which meant that he didn't know exactly who in the government and Intelligence services she was talking to, and therefore the identities of any potential suitors for her loyalties.

Lady Smallwood drew his attention back with a sigh. “I believe you knew her at Oxford.”

“Who?”

“Mycroft.” She tried another one of her not-very-quelling glares.

“We had a friend in common.”

“There was more to it than that.”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you mean.”

She paused and he was glad to see she was uncomfortable. And so she should be, to his mind, considering what he was sure she was about to order him to do. “Mycroft—” She sighed. “I cannot believe we're having this conversation,” she said, more to herself than to him. “We— That is— The government—”

Mycroft knew he shouldn't gloat at her discomfort and a tiny sliver of his amusement must have shown on his face as her expression shifted from embarrassment to a dismayed disappointment. “It has been decided that you are the best person to try to convince her to stay in Britain.”

“And how am I to accomplish that?”

“Mycroft—”

“Offer her money? Threaten her life? Threaten her children's lives?” Despite himself, Mycroft was beginning to relish the game of cat and mouse, though he knew he'd pay for it in the end.

“For heaven's sake—” Mycroft allowed her to pause and he took a sip of tea while she collected herself. “We'd imagined an approach that was less stick and more carrot.”

“I see that the active tense has returned to the conversation.”

“Can we perhaps refrain from straying into the wonders of English grammar and stick with the matter in hand? Christina Moran must be convinced to remain in Britain for the foreseeable future. I believe you have— Experience—” The woman looked mortified; she'd talked herself in circles around what he was making her spell out, and she obviously had no idea how to simply say what was needed.

“Again, Lady Smallwood, I fail to see what this has to do with me. Or why I, in particular, must be involved. It's been more than twenty years since I've spoken to the woman, but my recollection is that she's reasonably intelligent. Perhaps a direct approach from a senior figure, a woman perhaps.” He made a vague gesture in her direction and her expression closed off suddenly. “Might receive a better reception.” Mycroft suppressed a wave of laughter when he realised the implications of what he'd just said. Though he did allow himself to indulge in a thin, disinterested smile.

When she continued her tone was entirely business-like. “She knows you. The two of you have a shared history.”

“If you know that, then you also know that the one thing guaranteed to send her packing onto the next flight back to Canada is me showing up on her doorstep.”

“You can't know that. Not after twenty-three years.”

“Lady Smallwood.” He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Christina Moran has every reason in the world to despise me. And there is not a thing anyone can do about it.”

“Except you.”

“I—” He paused to collect his thoughts. His amusement with the conversation was gone and he was suddenly exhausted. “I like to think of myself as a man of some significant abilities. Wooing women is not one of them.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief that she hadn't, in the end, had to say the actual words. “When did you last try?”

He forced himself to not flinch at the casual thoughtlessness of that remark. “And how is entering into a liaison with the wife of a man who has been on our watch list for two decades supposed to improve my lot?”

“Ex-wife.”

“Irrelevant.”

She sighed. “I understand your concerns.”

 _No, you really don't_. “But consider them irrelevant. You are expecting me to take on an astonishing amount of risk.”

“How much do you value your career?”

So it had, in fact, come to this. Mycroft thought it refreshing to hear her say the words. “I'm to be downgraded to Met undercover operative?” 

“Don't be ridiculous. Aren't you— Curious?”

She was prying, unforgivable in his opinion and out of character for her. He could only surmise that she was desperate. Why was she desperate? Who was putting pressure on her? It couldn't really be about the Moran woman, could it? She simply wasn't that valuable any more. The only possible reason was that someone thought she had information about her husband's past “business associates”. Did Blythe think there had been a connection between Moran and Moriarty? Lady Smallwood's reference to “this week” certainly implied so. 

Mycroft filed himself a mental note to get one of his staff to go over the transcripts of her interviews to see if anything seemed potentially interesting. Assuming, of course, that he still had access to them. And get on to one of his contacts at the Crown Prosecution Service.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I know you do not want to do this. I know this brings up painful memories for you. But you are the best person for the job. A win of this nature will do your reputation a world of good right now.”

“Yes, thank you.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a minute. “You aren't interested in clearing this up, then?”

“Clearing what up?”

“This, whatever it was that happened. At Oxford. It's the only black spot on your record, you know. Do you not want to be rid of it?”

Mycroft was puzzled by the comment. Sherlock's assorted adventures had left their mark in various places, and Mycroft had always assumed that they had never done his own record any good. Either this wasn't the case or Elizabeth Smallwood was trying to get a tremendous and not very well conceived lie over on him. He did rather think the latter. She was getting the intent, squinting look around her eyes which he had long known was her tell for when she was desperate for you to believe her.

“Do you have an idea of how you'll approach her?”

“I haven't yet agreed to take on this project of yours.”

“Are you refusing?”

He didn't respond. Any possible reply could only be either trite or self-destructive, neither of which he would condescend to.

Lady Smallwood interpreted his silence correctly, as Mycroft knew she would. “We're in agreement, then.”

It was the most he could do to not fling his teacup across the room.

~ + ~

As his car made its way back to his office, Mycroft pondered the situation. He had to admit it was the perfectly crafted blow. Whoever was responsible could not have chosen better than to dig up Mycroft's greatest professional blunder and throw it in his face, and force him to confront the possibility of having to give up everything in his personal life that he valued in order to keep the career he'd spent his life building. It was a master stroke. A bold, brilliant move worthy of Mycroft himself; that was one of the many reasons why it was so infuriating.

~ + ~

**Friday, January 9**

Mycroft watched the surveillance feed from Baker Street, glad for the likely temporary reprieve for his equipment budget. 

The previous evening, Mycroft had just turned on the feed as Sherlock returned home from his meeting with Lestrade. To Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock hadn't immediately proceeded to remove all the cameras that Mrs Fraser's excellent team had replaced while Sherlock was out. And after reading Mycroft's note, tucked into a case file by Lestrade, Sherlock had looked straight into a camera and given a mock salute with the slip of paper. Mycroft had resisted the impulse to salute back, and he assumed the continuing operation of the cameras was Sherlock's way of giving thanks for the information and the preparation time that it allowed him before his meeting with Doctor Oppenheimer Friday evening.

The cameras had not, however, provided much of a relief in the end. Mycroft saw nothing other than the unedifying, and worrying, view of Sherlock doing not much of anything. And still alone. Where was John Watson, Mycroft wondered again. If his absence indicated the standard of care he practiced, it was a wonder the man had not yet been struck off.

Mycroft was tempted to call Lestrade and get the man's opinion on Sherlock's state of mind. But the report he really wanted was Andrea's. Unlike anyone on Mrs Fraser's team, Andrea knew Sherlock and had seen him at his worst; this knowledge would inform her observations. And while Lestrade's judgement was ordinarily sound on matters within his limited experience and worldview, Mycroft found the man admired Sherlock too highly to see him clearly at times like these.

As Mycroft refreshed his tea, his thoughts ranged back to his previous evening, the ridiculous meeting with Lady Smallwood, and the unexpected and unwanted new millstone around his neck. _Christina Moran_. He didn't quite know what to think about Christina hovering around the edges of his life and work again, though he had to wonder whose idea it has been to send Mycroft after her. Lady Smallwood had access to the knowledge of Christina's role in his past, but he couldn't imagine her being so spiteful as to waste Mycroft's time in this way. Blythe would not have had access to Mycroft's file, so unless the Foreign Secretary (who, in theory, did have access to it) had passed it along, the Foreign Secretary was Suspect No1. Mycroft hadn't thought his opinion of the man could fall much lower, but apparently he'd been incorrect.

Mycroft's thoughts on the former Lady Moran and who had been responsible for digging her out of his past were interrupted by Andrea's arrival.

“Good morning, sir. You're early.”

“Good morning. I wanted to get a head start on those Davos reports.”

She only nodded in reply as she took off her coat and settled into her usual chair in front of his desk.

“And how did you find Sherlock last night?”

“In fair spirits, I think. A bit agitated, but nothing out of the ordinary for him.”

“Yes, Lestrade sometimes has that effect on him.”

“The Chief Inspector gave him some case files. Cold cases, from the looks of them.”

“Lestrade and I discussed that earlier this week. Did the broadcast hacking come up?”

“A bit. Sherlock asked him about the Met's response that first day. Lestrade got a bit shirty with him. Is he really not going to be involved in the investigation?”

“Lestrade? No, he won't be involved.”

“They talked about the cold cases a bit. Sherlock was his usual charming self; apparently Lestrade has a new girlfriend and was getting a bit of grief about that. Sherlock seemed upset about it for some reason. Then they left; they weren't there an hour.”

“Yes, I did see that on the surveillance report.” Mycroft toyed with his teacup and before he could ask the question at the front of his mind, Andrea answered it.

“He looked sober when I arrived. He had two drinks. He looked—well, actually.”

Mycroft didn't bother hiding his relief. “Thank you.” She watched him for a few seconds and he couldn't tell if the concern on her face was for him or Sherlock. “Did they discuss the Watsons at all?”

“No. That's a little odd, isn't it?”

“Perhaps not.” Mycroft mentally berated Lestrade for forgetting to bring this up with Sherlock. “He visited the Watsons earlier this week, and it's unlikely Doctor Watson will be working with Sherlock at the moment. According to the surveillance reports, he's working quite long hours at the clinic.”

They both paused and Mycroft watched her mull a question over. While he couldn't read the words of it in her mind, its presence shone on her face as if she were illuminated from within, and he wondered at her curiosity. He knew Andrea did not care for Sherlock, and had no interest in him beyond the affect Sherlock's situation had on Mycroft's life and work. He thought she might be trying to come up with some way to ask if he already knew Deborah Oppenheimer was to be Sherlock's MI5 handler. That thought revived his unease from before the New Year about the possible sources of Andrea's knowledge regarding the psychiatrist, and what that mean for Mycroft and Sherlock.

“Have you heard anything about how the CIA learnt your brother was responsible for the Magnussen killing?”

Mycroft knew he hid his suspicions well, because almost the moment after she asked, she appeared to regret having done so. It unnerved him slightly that she kept bringing up such a sensitive topic on which he had never invited a discussion. He couldn't help but wonder who was behind her efforts to enter the lists in a game for which she had no training and little experience. Was she being used by someone willing to sacrifice her to achieve their own ends, or were her ambitions diversifying?

He gave her a thin smile that he was sure would tell her absolutely nothing. ”I wasn't aware you'd changed your mind about branching out into analysis.”

“No, no, sir. I just—we still don't really know what the fallout is going to be from that.”

He gave her a conciliatory sigh that he hoped would cause her to relax and let down her guard. Mycroft was not in the mood to chase down this problem right now, as well, but he couldn't let it just pass. A man had his pride, after all. “I think until this 'Moriarty video' business is put to bed, the Magnussen situation is being held in abeyance. What happens after that will likely depend on the resolution of the former.” He gave her a little shrug that he knew she would misinterpret as diffidence, and so would drop the matter. He was not surprised that she made her excuses to chase down Puri for her most recent progress report. Or progress out of his employ reports, as Mycroft had begun to think of them.

Andrea's departure left Mycroft with his thoughts for the few minutes until his meeting with the Shadow Chancellor. He was curious about Sherlock's meeting that evening with Deborah Oppenheimer. The woman had never been responsible for an agent before, and it had been almost thirty years since she had been in the field herself. _Baptism by fire_ , he couldn't help thinking with a grimace. Only time would tell if this would work in their favour or not. Regardless, the real question around the Doctor had nothing to do with her qualifications, and everything to do with her orders.

As he looked back over the preceding week, Mycroft could barely believe it had only been six days since the drive to the airfield. The most challenging week of his career, and it presaged many more like it. At least until he managed to clear some of the detritus off his agenda. Or Sherlock stunned them all by solving the “Moriarty situation” from the dank environs of Baker Street.

Later that evening, watching Sherlock's surveillance feed for any clue to his state of mind after returning from his first meeting with Deborah Oppenheimer, Mycroft allowed himself to ponder the week's events in all their horrifying glory. It had been years since anyone had taken a serious run at him. Now that a little time and distance had allowed his fear and anger to transform into the adamantine logic of analysis, he was almost amused by the novelty of the sensation. The adrenaline rush of fear elicited by something other than Sherlock's self-destructiveness. And unlike the tedium he was usually required to endure in his efforts to keep the British government functioning, he acknowledged that this might turn out to be a worthy challenge. It had been too long since he'd tasted the blood of a defeated foe, and he was looking forward to reacquainting himself with the pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What have Sherlock and John and all the others have been up to? Their story can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/11851685).


	2. Perhaps psychotherapy wouldn't go amiss right now

**Saturday, January 10**

“Now, if you would initial here, please. And here.” The solicitor turned to the last page of the long, thick document. “And, finally, sign here.”

The fountain pen flashed in rare winter sunshine as Christina signed away in triplicate the last vestiges of her marriage. When she was done, her solicitor divided the documents into three piles as Christina gently massaged her right hand with her left. 

He gave her a calculating look as he handed her a folder. “Your notarised copy of the _decree absolute_. I'd ask who pushed this through for you.” _And just barely legally_ , his expression added. “But I know you'd never give me an answer.”

She shrugged and gave him a small smile. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Once these are notarised, I'll courier your set to the house. Will you be at home tomorrow?”

“Thank you, yes, I'll be in until about five.”

Her solicitor extended a hand as they both stood. “Plans for the rest of the weekend?”

“Celebrating my new-found freedom, I hope. And thank you again for this.” She held up the folder. 

“I'm your solicitor, Christina. It's my job to get you what you want.”

They exchanged smiles as she left the office, and the smile stayed on her face as she passed through the firm's outer office. When she stepped onto the pavement, she stopped to pull her sunglasses out of her bag.

“Spare some change?”

Christina turned to see a young girl sitting on the pavement nearby, a mangy dog curled around her side. Christina took two steps closer and examined the girl. Pale elfin face almost entirely obscured by filthy blonde dreadlocks. Her clothing was generic hippy traveller. Too-large boots falling apart. The missing socks and dirty feet told Christina what she wanted to know, so she tucked her handbag and folder under her left arm, wrestled the two rings off the fourth finger of her left hand and held them out to the girl. “Wherever you go, make sure you don't take less than five hundred for this one.” She held up the diamond engagement ring. “It's worth ten times that, but no jeweller in this city will let you in the door, and if they did they wouldn't believe you didn't steal it. But make sure the pawnbroker gives you five for this one and a hundred for the band. And buy yourself some socks before you freeze to death, for heaven's sake.”

Before the gobsmacked girl could say anything, Christina dropped the rings into her empty cup and walked past to her waiting car.

~ + ~

Mycroft glanced up from the cup of tea that had just appeared on his desk. “Thank you.”

Andrea gave him one of her sardonic looks. “You should eat.” She glanced pointedly at her watch. “I imagine you skipped breakfast again.”

As Mycroft hummed quietly in response, his phone pinged quietly; to his surprise, it was a text from Sherlock.

_I need your file on JM.  
SH _

_You've seen it already.  
M_

“Would you like me to pick you up something?” Andrea asked as she pulled on her coat.

“If you're going out anyway—” 

_I need the rest of it what you didn't share.  
SH_

“Of course.” She gave him a brief smile before leaving.

_There is no more.  
M_

Mycroft couldn't help but wonder, for perhaps the thousandth time in his life, at his brother's ability to choose the most inconvenient moment to become demanding. He glanced at the pile of reports that were supposed to be the focus of his attention at that moment.

_Stop stalling, I need the rest of it.  
SH_

Mycroft sighed and gently pressed his fingertips to his closed eyelids, hoping for some relief from his crushing weariness. After a few seconds of wondering why Sherlock had waited a week to ask for the file, he picked up his phone again.

_There is no more. How many times do I have to tell you?  
M_

_You tortured him for weeks.  
SH_

_Torture is such an unpleasant word. And?  
M_

_There has to be more. Not even your people are that incompetent.  
SH_

For a moment, Mycroft flirted with the idea of replying that he would pass on the backhanded compliment. Andrea looked as though she could use a good laugh, but he didn't want to think what Janet Fraser's response would be to being judged not entirely incompetent, other than it likely would be slow and painful for Sherlock. He sighed and typed out the response he knew would be expected.

_If you 'know' there's more, you must already know what it is.  
M_

_You've had one of your minions update the profile. I need it.  
SH_

_I have no idea to what you're referring.  
M_

_I need it.  
SH_

_I'm crushed to be unable to help, then.  
M_

_You and the rest of your fellow travellers brought me back now I need the data to solve this.  
SH_

And there was the confirmation that Mycroft had been dreading for the last week. That Blythe was doing everything he could to prevent Sherlock from completing his assignment or, equally likely, ensuring that Sherlock came up with the solution that best served Blythe's interests. But a text was not the appropriate method for communicating that to Sherlock, if indeed he hadn't deduced that fact himself by now.

_Why have you suddenly changed your mind?  
M_

_About what?  
SH_

_For thirty years you've demanded I leave you alone. Now that I am, you complain. Make up your mind, Sherlock.  
M_

_I need this data.  
SH_

_But I have nothing to give you, so you'll have to fulfil your needs elsewhere.  
M_

Mycroft knew that Sherlock would know this for the lie that it was. Mycroft was unaccustomed to using on Sherlock the methods he employed to manipulate ordinary people. He felt as if he were traversing a minefield while walking backwards, with nothing to guide him but a mirror pointed over his shoulder. It required a multi-dimensional reorientation of his instincts toward dealing with his brother, and it was giving him a headache already.

_You do want me dead, glad to see you finally being honest about something.  
SH_

_Always such melodrama. I'm sorry I cannot help you, Sherlock. Good luck.  
M_

_I need that data Mycroft.  
SH_

_I'm sure you think you do.  
M_

That should satisfy Lady Smallwood, he thought as he hit _Send_. Mycroft was keeping his distance, as ordered. He was pretending to refuse to help his brother. He was staying out of MI5's way, as the Prime Minister had so memorably demanded, and Mycroft now had the electronic trail to prove it.

He wondered at the merry chase on which Blythe was leading Sherlock, aided (probably) by Deborah Oppenheimer. And there was still the matter of Sherlock's inexplicable ambivalence towards the case, especially in view of the excitement he'd displayed on returning from his aborted mission. 

What else could explain Sherlock's delay in asking for assistance? Mycroft couldn't help but be concerned. Was MI5's involvement diminishing Sherlock's interest? If so, that would have consequences well beyond this particular case, and upset one of Mycroft's most intricately-constructed plans. And of all Blythe's schemes to dethrone Mycroft, this one could have the greatest long-term consequences.

~ + ~

**Sunday, January 11**

Another day, another useless meeting, Mycroft thought as he waited for the Foreign Secretary to run out of steam and let them go. Mycroft could not believe he'd been required to give up his Sunday afternoon for this farce. It had purportedly been about developing strategies for somehow convincing the press to stop pointing out the government's lack of effective response to the “Moriarty situation”, but it had rapidly descended into inter-departmental bickering, finger-pointing and panic-mongering. 

When it had finally ended and the group began to file out of the committee room, the Foreign Secretary asked Mycroft and Blenner-Hassett to stay behind to discuss the escalating hostilities on the Arabian Peninsula. Blythe appeared to think that Yemen fell within the jurisdiction of MI5, and decided to remain, as well. As the Foreign Secretary did not comment, Mycroft didn't consider it worth the potential grief, so did not do so either.

While Mycroft pretended to listen to Blenner-Hassett as he regaled them with his views on how the Americans would respond to the Saudi situation, out of the corner of his eye Mycroft watched Blythe watch them.

“And how about the others?” the Foreign Secretary asked.

“Oh, the Canadians will do as they're told,” Blenner-Hassett replied in the dismissive tones Mycroft knew the man adopted when he felt the need to fit in when surrounded by bullies and halfwits. It was always irritating to see, as Mycroft knew the man had some degree of intelligence, even if he decided to not use it half the time.

“Yes, Canadians do so love to be _helpful_.” Blythe addressed the comment to Mycroft, who felt a sharp chill on the back of his neck. Thankfully, the other two hadn't noticed, so he was left to stare at Blythe's expression of feigned disinterest, as the man returned the attention. Mycroft knew his reactions would be coolly picked over and analysed, but twenty-five years of practice kept his face as placid as if they were discussing that day's menu at the Commons restaurant. Mycroft ensured that the only catch Blythe landed for his fishing expedition was a slightly puzzled expression.

The conversation droned on for another five minutes before the Foreign Secretary's assistant hustled him off to a constituency event. Blenner-Hassett looked from Mycroft's studiously blank look to Blythe's and escaped before he could be caught in the crossfire. 

Mycroft didn't expect a follow-up to Blythe's comment now that his audience had departed, and he didn't receive one. The man only nodded politely, muttered, “Holmes,” just at the edge of hearing and made his exit. Alone in the corridor, Mycroft stared out the window for a few seconds before sighing quietly, then called Andrea to send Peterson to pick him up.

As his car crossed back over the river, Mycroft let Blythe's words loop around his mind a few times, while he assessed every aspect of their delivery: tone, inflection, accompanying expression. In the end there could be no doubt that Blythe knew about Mycroft's visit to Canada House just after the New Year, and his only possible sources were the High Commissioner (who would never involve himself in SIS internal politics), the author of the note (who hated Blythe), or a member of Mycroft's staff. 

So he had a mole in his office, and for some reason Blythe wanted him to know that. Or perhaps Blythe just wanted Mycroft to think that he had one. That would be almost as disruptive, and possibly serve Blythe's interests just as well. The fact that the man had even implied such a thing indicated that the latter was most likely the correct interpretation, but Mycroft couldn't just assume so and let it be. No, he had to investigate, and this alone could have been Blythe's intention, to give Mycroft another problem to solve, one that by definition he couldn't delegate.

The thought that the mole (if it existed) could be Andrea made him lightheaded for a moment. Then he forced himself to set the idea aside. It served no purpose to get ahead of himself or make assumptions. But one thing was certain: the Foreign Secretary wasn't Blythe's only ally in the Foreign Office. Blenner-Hassett had fed Blythe the perfect lead-in line. It had been a mid-pace, waist-high full toss, and Blythe had hit it over the pavilion for six.

Mycroft recognised the play for what it was, an attempt to undermine him on two fronts: overwhelm him with trivial matters that he was required to address, whilst attempting to remove him from his support network by bringing the loyalty of his staff into question. 

He knew that his power flowed almost entirely from his effectiveness as an analyst and advisor at the highest level, a role which required a tremendous investment in diplomacy, time, data, and—most importantly—freedom to simply _think_ about it all. Blythe was not the first, and likely would not be the last, rival that would try to bring Mycroft down by making him less valuable to their nominal masters in the perpetual dance of co-dependency that existed between Westminster and Whitehall. But never before had he faced such a broad-based, well-coordinated attack. Robin Blenner-Hassett's involvement surprised him, though. The man sometimes let his enthusiasm overcome his judgement and he was hopeless as a diplomat, but Mycroft had never before known him to become involved in political intrigue of this this nature. 

As much has he hated to admit it, his brother's antics had make Mycroft vulnerable by bringing his judgement into question with people Mycroft had once thought allies, or at least neutral regarding his battles with Blythe. So Sherlock's success with the “Moriarty situation” was critical to both their survival. And to his frustration, there was only so much Mycroft could do to help from his current enforced distance.

But he could not allow himself to be unduly distracted; the matter of the “mole” in his office would need to be addressed immediately. As much as he loathed the idea, he was going to have to play Blythe's game or have his energies drained by constant, wearying concern, anticipating a knife wielded by someone within his own ramparts.

~ + ~

**Monday, January 12**

Mycroft's car was parked down the street from the public entrance to the Archives building; it was uncomfortably conspicuous in the narrow residential street and Mycroft was anxious to have his mission completed and be on his way back to Whitehall. While he waited, he reviewed Mrs Fraser's most recent surveillance report on Sherlock's movements and tried not to worry that John Watson still appeared to be requiring Sherlock to come begging for help.

Three minutes later, a woman appeared around the corner from the direction of the Underground station and Mycroft was sure it was her. She was partly hidden behind a large red umbrella, but there was something familiar about her, the walk perhaps. As she passed the car, Mycroft saw her face for a moment and recognised her immediately. His driver opened the door and Mycroft set off in pursuit. He was only able to catch her as she was about to enter the building. 

“Christina.”

Her back stiffened, but otherwise she didn't move for a second or two. She looked bemused when she finally did face him. Without responding, she flicked her umbrella to cast off the accumulated water; with a scowl, Mycroft stepped back to avoid the stream.

“Christina. I'd like a word, if you don't mind.”

“Not in this rain. I have another meeting in half an hour, but—”

“I'd prefer to go back to my car.”

He heard a faint ringing from her handbag. She ignored it in favour of staring at him. “Are you mad? You think—”

“I think you should perhaps answer that.” 

She gave him an irritated look and pulled out her phone. When she saw who the caller was, her expression changed to puzzled. The conversation was short and afterwards, she placed the phone back in her bag. Stepping out from the overhang of the building, she re-opened her umbrella. “I'm assuming that monstrous Bentley I passed on Ruskin is yours,” she said as she walked by him.

As they left the Archives property and stepped back onto the residential street, Christina stopped. “Did he do it?”

“Did who do what?” Mycroft had no idea to what she was referring.

“Your brother. Did he kill Magnussen?”

Mycroft resisted the urge to take a step back. “What?”

“You heard me.” She smiled. It was one of her unfriendly smiles and Mycroft had no good memories of it.

“Who told you—?”

“You did.” She resumed walking toward his car. Peterson opened the rear door.

“I did no such thing.”

She paused before allowing Peterson to help her into the car. “Yes, you did.”

“When?”

“By getting out of this car and following me.”

As Peterson expertly swung the car around to head back into central London, Mycroft watched Christina stare out the window, pretending to ignore him as he followed the thread of logic that would have carried her to her deduction. “Ah.”

“Yes.” She gave him a quick, sad smile and turned back to the window. 

Mycroft settled back into the seat and as he examined her more closely, he pondered the nature of time. How it could stretch, snap and fold in on itself so that the here and now became simultaneously many theres and thens. How it dredged up memories that overwhelmed the senses for just a moment to leave one disorientated, before evaporating in an instant. Christina saw something that brought a faint smile to her face and Mycroft felt an archaeological event occur in the back of his mind. He wondered how, despite past attempts, he hadn't been able to delete those memories. He decided the shame had engraved them into the fabric of his intellectual architecture, rendering them ineradicable. 

“Christina.” Mycroft was startled to find himself hesitant, hovering on the edges of the conflict he knew was coming.

She turned to him, her expression flowing through fear, confusion, then a rigorous blandness.

Mycroft ensured that none of the hesitation he felt showed in his face or voice. “I apologise for taking you away from your work. But there is something I do need to discuss with you.”

“You always were one for making an entrance.” She appeared to have arrived at amused in less than a minute, which surprised him and he considered it a good omen for the proceedings as she continued. “You do realise you're one of a small but select group of people that I have absolutely no interest in talking to under any circumstances. And I imagine you feel the same way about me.”

While he formulated his response he wondered, for about the fiftieth time over the course of their acquaintance, how she'd managed to take control of the conversation already and why he always seemed to let her. And then she gave the advantage away by turning back to the window and the rain outside, as if she was bored with him once she had him. He felt the old frustration as she performed her petty show of disdain. Mycroft watched her watch him and he decided to resume his efforts to gain the initiative. “Have you had lunch?”

“Why?”

“I believe it is common custom for people to discuss matters of mutual interest over a meal.”

“Mutual interest.” Her tone bordered on the ironic and Mycroft ignored it in favour of hurtling down the slope of his plan.

“I also wanted to communicate my thanks to your uncle for his gift.”

It was obvious she didn't know to what he was referring and the not knowing bothered her. Mycroft felt a little ashamed at the satisfaction he felt at having wrong-footed such an intellectual inferior. 

“I'll pass along your thanks the next time I see him.”

“Christina, I—” He paused and fumed a little as she pulled out her phone and proceeded to make a call without even the most perfunctory apology. She was making a fair fist at appearing to ignore him while making a restaurant reservation. He hid his annoyance, as he knew she was testing his reactions. Mycroft remembered how much he'd hated these games and frowned at the thought that he was going to have to suffer through them all again. 

Once the call was done she handed her phone to him; it displayed a map with directions to a restaurant near Butler's Wharf.

“Do whatever you have to,” she said as she made a small flapping motion in Peterson's direction, and Mycroft decided to concede the point. If nothing else, the food was likely to be better than it would have been at the club, and it would serve his interests if she were comfortable while they talked. 

As if by mutual agreement, they were silent as they followed the southern perimeter of the city. Mycroft answered three emails from Andrea and skimmed a report on Chinese potash imports while Christina resumed staring out the window.

The restaurant was full, bustling and noisy with City types. Instead of seating them in the middle of the braying and clanking crowd, though, the hostess lead them to a small private room in the rear of the restaurant. Christina obviously was a regular customer, as the staff all greeted her with a warmth that seemed genuine. Mycroft was surprised to hear them refer to Christina as “Miss Martin” and he wondered when she'd returned to her maiden name.

“The wine list is decent and the food is good,” she answered his unspoken question as they unfolded their napkins. “And no one I know crosses the river if they can avoid it.”

“I'm honoured you've allowed me into your home away from home, Miss Martin.” He kept his tone light, but the question was obvious.

She gave him a pensive look. “Does that usually work?”

“What do you mean?”

“The fake gentility. Do people actually fall for it?”

“Some people. Sometimes.”

She smiled as she opened her menu and Mycroft allowed himself a point, even though she hadn't answered his implied question.

They discussed the menu, the wine list and the weather as they watched each other's performances, carefully-crafted for whatever imaginary audiences they each conjured in their minds. Mycroft was bored already. He allowed Christina to order the wine.

When they had their starters, she played with hers more than she ate. Throughout, she was more attentive to the wine than her food and by all appearances it was the most she could do to look across the table in his direction. It was the most uncomfortable meal Mycroft had had in many years, including ones that had involved both Sherlock and his parents.

For some reason, he was having difficulty opening the conversation. He didn't know why. He'd negotiated more sensitive issues with infinitely more powerful people with not a whisper of nerves. Over coffee, he took the plunge. “You're wondering why I came to see you—”

“Not really.” There was a hint of a smirk in the corners of her mouth.

He suppressed a frustrated sigh. “I wanted to ask a favour of you. A not inconsiderable favour. One that I know your instinct will be to decline, but I ask that you hear me out and give the matter some thought before making your decision.”

“Okay.” She leant back in her chair, demeanour all business.

“Sherlock—”

She made a small sound of disgust in the back of her throat and turned away to look out the window.

“He is in terrible trouble.”

She toyed with the massacred remains of her sole. “Is he ever not in trouble?”

He gave her a slight nod in acknowledgement. “What he has done— I am compromised to some degree, as well, by his actions and am not in the best position at the moment to help him in the way that he needs.”

“But you think I can? Archives emergency? What?” Some of his frustration must have shown on his face. “Oh for heaven's sake, Mycroft. What could I possibly do for your brother that you can't? I have no interest in enabling— Frankly, I'm amazed you'd come to me of all—”

“You were correct. Earlier.”

That put a stop to her incipient rant. “Okay,” she replied, drawing out both syllables. 

“Shot in cold blood, unprovoked.” Saying the words seemed to make the events more present, and Mycroft felt his previous despair return to grip his heart.

She turned her gaze back out the window for a moment; turning back to him, her expression was solemn and less unfriendly than it had been. He resisted the urge to explain, leaving the floor open for her. 

“And you know for a fact this happened; he's not just accused of doing it, or—”

“I was there.”

“Oh, Mycroft, I'm so sorry.” She placed a hand on his and surprise was the only thing that kept him from pulling away. She drew her hand back as she whispered to herself, “Christ almighty.” 

“The only way I could keep him alive, in Britain, was to stand back and allow him to be entirely taken over as an asset.” He paused while a look of horror passed over her face. “He has put himself beyond the pale; he cannot be allowed to continue as he has. I fear his life will become— intolerable to him. He will be watched and controlled, and he—” Mycroft had to pause for a moment to regain his composure; he was allowing himself to become too immersed in the game and was skirting much too close to his real feelings. He noticed, abstracted, his hands beginning to tremble and he forced them still on his lap. “I must bear some responsibility, for— For failing him. For failing to control him.” Watching her, Mycroft was shocked to realise her sympathy disturbed him more than her previous anger, though he knew it could be a tremendous benefit to his plan. “I must distance myself from him for the time being. The delicacy of the situation is difficult to express. There are too many variables, many of which I can no longer influence, some of which are actively hostile—”

“Some people have been waiting a long time for you to be this vulnerable.”

“Yes.”

“What do you want from me?”

Mycroft was glad to see her expression was moved on to calculating. “I want you to watch him, as much as you can. There is a connection—”

“I won't play go-between, Mycroft. From what you've said, even talking to you right now puts my career in jeopardy. Though I appreciate that you went through my Director first. But I'm not sacrificing it for you.”

“I wouldn't expect you to.”

That seemed to placate her and the tension in the room began to ease. “Who would be his official handler? Will they be in on this little scheme of yours?”

“No, she should not be made aware of this 'scheme' as you call it, but it shouldn't be necessary. You know her. Deborah Oppenheimer.”

Christina appeared astonished. “Maris Featherstonhaugh's wife? Maris' wife is—?” She laughed for a few moments, a hand covering her mouth. “That, actually, that explains a lot. They'll have him a patient as cover, I suppose.” 

“Yes, it's the only plausible explanation. Though.” He paused for a wry smile. “Perhaps psychotherapy wouldn't go amiss right now.”

They were both silent, lost in their own thoughts. Mycroft replayed the conversation in his mind and satisfied himself that his approach didn't appear to have been a complete disaster. 

She stared at the empty cup in front of her. “Why did he kill Magnussen?”

Mycroft glanced from her hands to her face. He had wondered when she would return to that subject. “I'm afraid I can't answer that.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Is there a difference, from your perspective?”

“I see.” Her expression had cycled back to amused again and Mycroft was starting to feel a long-ago familiar dizziness. “It's something to do with the doctor friend, isn't it?”

“Christina—”

She held her hands up. “All right, all right. I'll leave it alone.” The _for now_ was more than adequately communicated by the expression on her face.

To Mycroft's surprise, Christina insisted on paying for lunch. “It's the least I can do,” she said as they put on their coats. As he followed her out into the main room of the restaurant, she glanced over her shoulder to him. “Seeing as my answer is no.”

The shock stopped him in the middle of the room. Half his mind reprimanded him; he should have expected this would be her answer. The other half of his mind retreated in disappointment and a little disgust with himself that he'd unconsciously assumed that it wouldn't be. 

It wasn't until she was outside that Christina noticed he was no longer following her. She seemed perplexed as she stared back through the glass at him, standing in the middle of the restaurant. He took a deep breath and followed her. It had stopped raining and to Mycroft's surprise, Christina slid her right hand under his left elbow and gently steered him along the waterfront walkway, as if they were a couple out for a stroll. His instinct was to recoil from the touch, another expression of dominance that she would likely discard the moment he acknowledged that it bothered him. Her hand remained where it was as they silently ambled toward Tower Bridge. 

“May I ask why?”

“Why should I help you?” Christina began as they paused to look across the Thames to St Katherine Docks. “You represent everything I hate about this country. You've spent the last twenty-five years ingratiating yourself to the establishment. But they're already turning on you, aren't they? That's why you're here, begging for my help.

“Well, you know what? To hell with you. And to hell with your brother, too.” Her mild tone belied the venom of her words and Mycroft tried to convince himself that she had no idea what she was talking about. 

“You know, when I first met you I thought, 'my god, this guy is really something; the mind, what potential' and you've spent your life throwing it all away, for nothing. To be able to say you get to kowtow to the powers that be and delude yourself into thinking you're one of them. Well, you never have been and never will be. They know it, I know it, even your loon of a brother probably knows it. For heaven's sake, Mycroft. You think you're king of the world, but you're just a servant.” 

He forced himself to remain silent as she continued to disembowel his character and his life's work. If it was important to her to say the words, it was in his interest to let her, uninterrupted, regardless of his instinctual revulsion at her ignorance. 

“You sold that extraordinary mind of yours into servitude and what have you got to show for it? Nothing.”

Mycroft stood staring, unseeing, across the water. Through her quiet, calm screed, Christina had remained stock still beside him, relaxed, by all appearances unaffected by the emotional resonances of her little speech. He cleared his throat. “Have you always felt this way?”

She glanced at him for a moment. “Pretty much.”

“You hate me.”

She made an annoyed sound in the back of her throat. “Stop being such a drama queen. I hate what you've done to yourself. It makes me want to weep to think of it. But no. Why would I hate you? You're no threat to me or anything I value.”

A month ago Mycroft would have been amused at the assertion, but he had to admit her statement hit a little closer to the mark now, even if it was still _largely_ untrue. He'd never wanted power for the sake of holding it over people; power was a tool to be used to accomplish what was necessary. It appeared that the Christina he'd known more than twenty years ago hadn't changed her opinion of power and those who sought it. Her disdain was palpable, though he still thought it misguided.

“You think Sherlock should suffer because of your misliking me.”

“This has nothing to do with your brother.”

“It has everything to do with him. I've asked for your help—”

“With overseeing your brother, yes, I know. Which helps you, not him.” She paused and the tight anger on her face loosened a little. “You have to let him go sometime, Mycroft.”

“Not all of us have lost the ability to care.”

She stepped back from him, wrenching her hand from his arm, and for a moment he thought she was going to strike him as a tight scowl broke through her calculated unconcern. Curious, he watched the effort she put into returning her expression to its more usual sardonic bemusement, shaking her head twice. “That's really rich. You, talking about _caring_ —” 

Mycroft was angry for allowing himself to respond to her provocation, even though his point was valid. But he had to get the conversation back on track before he lost her completely, so he swallowed his irritation and changed tacks. “I've often wondered why you never came to me for help with Moran.” 

Her expression softened a bit as she replied. “I knew you wouldn't be able to help me. The people who have the real power protected him for twenty-five years because he's one of them. That's why you were never allowed to touch him until he threatened them directly.”

“We knew he was a danger. But we could not question him until we had proof he planned to commit a crime.” Even as he said the words, Mycroft knew they just supported her assertions. She was right about Moran, at least. And if her understanding of how power operated was based on her experiences with her ex-husband, then her beliefs were understandable, even if they were incorrect to Mycroft's mind.

She chuckled. “Right. Proof.” She turned to face the river again and leant over to him as if she were about to share a confidence. “Your lot never need 'proof', Mycroft. You allowed him the whole length of rope; you gave him all the chances he wanted, because he's one of them. People like me, we never get any rope, just the knife when we least expect it.” She stood back and adjusted the collar of her coat. “I think I'll walk to the Tube.” She gave him one of her less unfriendly smiles. “I suppose I should thank you for arranging this; god knows I've got things I'd rather do this afternoon than sit in a policy planning meeting.”

He gave her a small smile to indicate his agreement on the matter of policy planning meetings. “You're welcome. And thank you for lunch.”

“My pleasure.” She saluted with the handle of her umbrella and strolled off toward London Bridge station.

When Mycroft turned toward the lane where his car was parked, he saw Andrea leaning against the wall of a shop. Her eyes were on her mobile, but he knew she'd have been watching them the entire time. He wondered that Christina hadn't noticed.

As he headed across the walkway, he reviewed the past two hours. In planning his approach to Christina, he'd projected a range of scenarios based on what he imagined her response might be. What had happened that afternoon was more productive than most of them and was an adequate opening salvo. All in all, things had gone better than he'd had any reason to expect. As he approached Andrea his pace slowed as parts of the conversation replayed themselves in his mind. 

The flow of his thoughts stuttered to a halt. 

Christina knew. 

He sighed to himself and stopped. Andrea glanced up from her phone, then did a double-take. They looked at each other across the intervening ten yards for a second or two. “She knows.”

Mycroft resumed walking toward the car. “Yes, I believe she does.”

As Peterson wove through the back lanes of Southwark, Andrea's attention returned to her phone. “Have you made a habit of underestimating her?”

Mycroft stared at the tip of his umbrella, tapping gently on the floor of the car. Andrea rarely questioned or criticised him in his presence, and while the critique was only implied it was definitely present. She didn't look up from her texting, so he allowed himself a smile, which he made sure she heard. “Apparently.”

“I can't imagine she appreciates it much.”

“No.”

“A different approach, perhaps.” She glanced up for a moment and there was a hint of a smile in her eyes.

A trace of mock shudder crept into his voice as he replied. “Honesty.”

“People say it's the best policy.”

“Only people with no other options.”

She hummed quietly in response as she scrolled through her messages and Mycroft turned to the view as they broke out of the brutalist piles of the Southbank Centre and onto the open vistas of Waterloo Bridge.

~ + ~

**Tuesday, January 13**

As had become his usual practice, Mycroft began his day by reviewing Mrs Fraser's report on Sherlock's activities since the previous evening. Mycroft was relieved to see that his brother had finally decided to start working on the “Moriarty matter”; this could be the only reason behind Sherlock's visit to Miss Hooper at Bart's the previous evening. Sherlock had then wandered around Holborn before meeting her at a pub for dinner. His contact with her indicated that he had exhausted the minimal resources he'd been provided for solving the case, so he was finally taking a more characteristically active approach to gathering data. He was making contact with everyone who had known James Moriarty, which meant that the next person on Sherlock's list was likely to be Irene Adler.

Mycroft had always known about Sherlock's jaunt to Pakistan (how could he not?) and the consequences of it, even if the brothers had never acknowledged to each other the trip, the diplomatic hiccup it caused, or the resultant continuing existence of one of the few people in the world who genuinely caused Mycroft concern. While he had always suspected that Sherlock had met up with the woman either before or after his adventures in Tibet, there did not appear to have been any contact since Sherlock's return to England. Mycroft also assumed that while in India, Sherlock had established a means of communicating with her if he so desired. And all things considered, it made perfect sense for Sherlock to do so now, regardless of the multiple ways that this possibility raised Mycroft's anxiety levels. 

There was only so much damage the woman could do to Sherlock from this distance, but Mycroft feared that his brother would get the idea into his head to visit her, the only way their conversation could be secure from Sherlock's MI5 surveillance. The idea of Sherlock leaving England filled Mycroft with dread. Whoever had been behind the “Moriarty video” likely had saved Sherlock from being picked up by the CIA in Kosovo for rendition to who-knew-where. It would be the height of irony to have escaped that fate once through the efforts of an enemy, then to suffer it while in the process of soliciting the help of a supposed ally. For Mycroft, it was a prospect not to be borne.

So Mycroft had _another_ problem to solve; he visualised it as a file folder to be added to the pile growing at his elbow. There was no way he could take direct action to prevent Sherlock from getting on a plane; an appeal to his brother would just send him off faster. Revealing to MI6 that he had Sherlock under surveillance independent of MI5 also would show he was hardly complying with the spirit of Lady Smallwood's orders, or even simple good sense considering the political environment.

The ideal, of course, would be for Blythe's people to pick up Sherlock as he attempted to leave the country. In that case, Blythe would bear the brunt of Sherlock's ire, and as a side benefit deceive Blythe into thinking he had some sort of effective control over Sherlock, a potentially useful delusion. But Mycroft wasn't comfortable with depending on the ability of Blythe's people to keep up with Sherlock or decipher his actions; even the Adler woman had run rings around them, and as clever as she was, she was no Sherlock. 

The trick, of course, would be getting the information to Blythe without him suspecting that it came from Mycroft. If Blythe thought Mycroft was the source he would ignore it as a plant, a bluff meant to deceive him and his attention would turn in another direction, ignoring Sherlock's true intent and letting him get away. The obvious method would be to deploy Blythe's purported mole in Mycroft's office, if the mole truly existed. But the simplicity of that course raised Mycroft's long-ingrained suspicions of anything that came too easily, especially gifts from an opposing camp. The result of having enemies _almost_ as clever and devious as oneself, he mused as he put the matter aside for the moment and forced himself to pay attention to the junior Minister from the Exchequer, the most recent bane of Mycroft's existence.

~ + ~

The text finally came, years after Mycroft had stopped expecting it. Which, of course, was entirely in keeping with Sherlock's usual timekeeping. And as usual, it arrived when Mycroft was least able to manage the conversation in the way he would wish.

_You never told me about the twin.  
SH_

Mycroft wanted badly to reply, “Of course I bloody well didn't tell you about him because I knew if I did you'd have gone haring after his ghost years ago and most likely got yourself killed by American drug smugglers”. But he didn't. He gave himself a minute to weigh the respective risks of the only two possible responses, projected those risks into the future, spiced them with Sherlock's most self-destructive impulses and came to a decision.

_Records indicate he died in 1992.  
M_

There you go, Sherlock, he thought. Make of that what you will.

Mycroft was not surprised that he did not receive an answer. He hoped this meant that the message had been received. A year ago—before the Watsons' marriage and Magnussen—Mycroft wouldn't have considered the possibility that Sherlock might not be able to parse out that statement and run with it. But now, even though he had no firm evidence that Sherlock was still using, Mycroft wasn't as confident. And while he feared what his brother might conclude from the trail of breadcrumbs Mycroft had just pointed out to him, the consequences of rebuffing Sherlock right now were simply too dire. It was a mistake Mycroft had been making at just the wrong times for twenty years and it needed to stop. And he couldn't help being curious himself. He'd never had either the time or the motive to go after the answer to that question himself. And the increasing strain between him and his former colleagues at the CIA over the last few years had precluded Mycroft from getting any more information from that source. So for years he had let that mystery lay on the table, unaddressed, and now it had come back to haunt them.

~ + ~

**Wednesday, January 14**

As it turned out, Mycroft didn't have long to wait for confirmation of Sherlock's plans. 

Mycroft looked up at the knock on his door. Andrea entered and when he met her eye, her expression set off a low-level alarm in his mind.

“There's been activity on one of the numbers you asked me to monitor.”

For the sake of her ego, he pretended to be surprised by this information. “Yes?”

“He has contacted someone in India by text message. A friend or acquaintance. Female, judging by the tone of the responses. He's proposed a visit next week.”

For a moment Mycroft thought Sherlock had suggested that the Adler woman come back to England, before realising that Sherlock meant to make the visit himself. Sherlock would never have suggested she expose herself by returning to England, not after what he had gone through to secure her escape in Pakistan. And while Mycroft was glad to see Sherlock's initiative on the case, he was less thrilled by the form of that action being so predictable. 

“I've checked the credit card records for all the false identities we set up for him,” Andrea continued. “He hasn't purchased a flight yet.”

Mycroft knew she expected him to ask her to monitor the situation and let him know when the ticket was purchased. But the previous evening he had realised how he might use this particular turn of events to help address another matter, and he decided on the spot to pursue that course. “Please send me a transcript of the text conversation. And have Puri monitor the credit cards and airlines for the passport numbers. I need you to focus on the Davos file.” Mycroft knew that Andrea would wonder why he was trusting Puri with a matter to do with Sherlock. But he also knew that she wouldn't expect him to trust such a high-profile, time-sensitive issue as the Davos brief to anyone else on his staff. 

“Yes, sir.” She left without asking whether or not she should notify MI5 of this particular development. Mycroft wasn't sure whether that meant she would go to them behind his back, or that she knew he suspected that she would go to them behind his back and so avoided mentioning the other agency in a vain attempt to not flag his attention to the possibility. This “mole” situation was becoming a tedious distraction, he thought; he wanted to be done with it.

Mycroft had identified Puri as the first person he would test, even though he had no evidence pointing to her as the culprit. Standard strategy said that he should start by eliminating the suspect presenting the greatest potential risk. Andrea had worked for him for nine years and until recently had never given him a moment's doubt as to her loyalty. Mycroft hired people as ambitious as they were clever, though, and he had no doubt that his changing circumstances might lead any of his staff to begin to ponder their future. He hoped he wasn't becoming sentimental; that was a weakness no one in his field could afford. And Puri was new and the supposed threat had appeared just after she did. Mycroft told himself it was only logical to begin with her.

Now that he had initiated a response to Blythe's newest assault on his peace of mind, Mycroft put the matter aside. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere for a few days yet and Mycroft had more immediate problems to address. With a sigh he turned his attention back to preparations for the Davos conference, which he was not pleased to be excluded from for the first time in six years. Another bit of undermining, this time from the Exchequer. The rot was spreading out from the Intelligence services, and Mycroft was not happy about that at all.

~ + ~

**Thursday, January 15**

“So we're to just _abandon_ it?” The Home Secretary made no attempt to disguise her incredulity at the Commissioner's suggestion. The Commissioner of the Met didn't flinch under the glare of the woman he nominally reported to. Mycroft had to admire the man's nerve, if not his intelligence or acumen. “There is no evidence of any ongoing threat. There has been no follow-up actions, and no one—” The Commissioner glanced around the room, looking for support, from Blythe, to the Foreign Secretary, to Cartwright, to Mycroft, and back to the Home Secretary. “No one has been able to show us a scrap of Intelligence saying who might have been behind it, or why they did it, or that they're any tangible threat _at all_.”

_Well, yes_ , Mycroft wanted to reply on the Home Secretary's behalf. _Perhaps you might want to bestir yourself to try to understand the implications of anyone's being able to succeed at such an undertaking. Congratulations, Commissioner. You're officially the least imaginative man in Britain_.

Mycroft glanced at Lady Smallwood out of the corner of his eye and he strongly suspected her thoughts were similar to his own, though no one would have guessed from the tone of her response. “There is simply no appetite in the government for a formal inquiry, regardless of what the press are demanding. Public opinion appears to have moved on.”

“The investigation is to remain open,” the Home Secretary added. The Commissioner bristled, but had no valid reason for objecting that Mycroft could see. He imagined the Met resources currently dedicated to investigating the broadcast hacking were about to melt away and the open case would soon be deemed a cold one. That is, unless Sherlock managed to solve it. The Commissioner only replied with a tight little nod and a murmur, and at that Mycroft knew that the meeting was effectively over, regardless of how much longer they would all be forced to sit around the table and engage in useless jousting. He resisted the urge to pull out his watch and check the time.

Eventually, the Prime Minister shooed them all out; Mycroft suspected the man wanted to bunk off a day early for a long weekend at Chequers. As they filed out of the room, Lady Smallwood managed to catch Mycroft's eye and he knew he wouldn't be getting to his delayed dinner any time soon.

She led him into one of the small committee rooms at the other end of the corridor and sat, motioning for him to do the same. Mycroft had been expecting this little “intervention” since Tuesday morning, but that didn't make it any less annoying now that it had arrived.

Once Mycroft was seated, Lady Smallwood seemed loath to actually begin. Mycroft hoped she wasn't trying to wait him out; she should have learnt long ago the futility of that enterprise. She settled back and gave him an expectant look, but he felt a mulish opposition to the idea of cooperating, so remained silent.

They stared at each other for approximately thirty-seven seconds before she relented, as he'd known she would.

“Mycroft—”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She paused at his interruption. “You're wondering why I've asked you to stay—”

“No.” He shouldn't have taken as much pleasure as he did from her consternation. He was starting to understand Christina's obstreperousness; it felt strangely liberating, but he knew he needed to behave if he wanted to keep Lady Smallwood on-side. So he set a slightly contrite expression on and let the woman continue so that she could finish and he could finally go home.

“I wanted to check in, see how things were progressing.”

“Which particular things?”

She wasn't blushing or stammering, so Mycroft assumed she would be avoiding anything to do with Christina. “How is your brother faring?”

“Have you spoken to Sir Edwin?”

“I thought I would speak to you first.”

_And isn't that revealing_ , Mycroft thought. He wondered who she was testing, him or Blythe. Or was she attempting to play them off one another? Or was Blythe getting above himself and refusing to give her any information about Sherlock's “progress”?

“Seeing as I have been explicitly instructed, by you, to have no contact with my brother, and seeing as how he is being handled by an MI5 operative of a kind, then perhaps Sir Edwin would be the logical first port of call on all matters relating to Sherlock.” Mycroft regretted the sarcasm, but the woman really was wasting his time. Unless, of course, asking about Sherlock was simply an excuse to open the conversation when her true purpose—

“And how was your first contact with Christina Moran?”

Mycroft suppressed a groan. “Martin.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She has gone back to her maiden name. She appears to have done so some time ago.”

“Really? She never mentioned.” Lady Smallwood looked thoughtful while Mycroft fumed. It had been _three days_. “When will you be seeing her again?”

Mycroft tried to not goggle at her, but knew he failed. “And when do I have time for Christina Martin?”

“Perhaps the time you're spending surveilling your brother could be put to more profitable use, re-directed to one of your actual assignments.”

Mycroft wanted to smile; he was amused by the grotesque insult of her assuming she was in a position to micro-manage him to this degree. And he rarely managed to ruffle Elizabeth Smallwood's famously cool demeanour. His previous suspicions around the reason for targeting Christina came back to the foreground of his mind. “And where, exactly, is this pressure coming from, that requires us to dedicate so much attention to a low-ranking civil servant with no active connection to anything of interest to anybody?”

There. He'd given her the floor. But she declined to take it and while that action wasn't conclusive, it did provide slightly more weight to Mycroft's assumptions as to why there was interest in the former Lady Moran and, more importantly, who was behind it. Seeing as he received no response on that matter, he decided to take another tack. “I understand you're off to Dublin tomorrow.”

That information was not well-known, and he knew she would understand why he had brought it up now. Occasionally, Elizabeth required a reminder of just what Mycroft was.

“Yes.” She was wary, just as Mycroft had expected. “Have you heard from your CIA contacts? About who passed along the details of Magnussen's death?”

_Ah, so it is to be this game_ , Mycroft thought as he settled back into his chair. “Not yet. They're understandably cautious about sharing that information just not, considering the source is likely located within fifty yards of where we're currently sitting.”

She smiled, then stood. “Well, then. Give my regards to Christina the next time you see her.” She gathered up her handbag and briefcase and made for the door. Then she stopped and Mycroft knew her fondness for melodrama meant she had to make some trite parting statement. “He doesn't have infinite time, Mycroft.”

“All of us are fully aware of that, ma'am.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “Recent events would indicate otherwise, I think.” She gave him a tired smile and continued on her way.

Mycroft had known this little tête-a-tête would come, but he never would have imagined it happening so soon after Sherlock's return. And the question about Christina was ludicrous. Elizabeth Smallwood knew the woman and yet she expected Mycroft to have finagled Christina into acquiescence over lunch, the first time they'd spoken in twenty-three years. The most likely explanation was that the question itself was a warning. Mycroft couldn't help the suspicion that things were about to get a lot more uncomfortable for Christina. He couldn't yet determine if his actual assignment was to be the instrument of or salvation from the tribulations that he strongly suspected were coming her way.

The warning about Sherlock Mycroft chose to ignore; it sounded more akin to a kind of smoke screen for anyone who might have been listening in. Regardless, Mycroft couldn't assume that the woman wasn't willing to take action now. He wondered when she would begin to start paying off the debt she owed Sherlock; while Mycroft would love nothing more than to remind her of it, he would have to pick his moment very carefully.

~ + ~

**Friday, January 16**

It had been quite some time since Mycroft had engaged in anything that might be regarded as “legwork”. If trawling though financial systems online could even be considered as such. The task elicited a strong sense of nostalgia in him and the evolution of bank security systems in the intervening years had presented a mildly diverting challenge. Ordinarily, Mycroft had Sherlock do his hacking for him, but that would hardly have been appropriate under the circumstances. Though it was beneath Mycroft to be engaged in such low-level espionage, the point of the exercise was to obtain the data as untainted by other hands as possible. And while he didn't much like to admit it, he'd almost enjoyed stretching himself a bit; computers and their acolytes had never been his world, though he appreciated them as tools of surveillance and social control.

Mycroft usually allowed himself a certain self-satisfaction at the successful conclusion of a project, but this one—by definition—would give him no pleasure, regardless of the outcome. When he saw the characteristic markers against the accounts and the dates they had been added to the bank's credit system, Mycroft knew that he was one step closer to resolving one of his problems and two steps closer to resolving another. 

The markers were MI5's, and only Sherlock, Mycroft, or one of his staff could have directed MI5's attention to these accounts. So there was indeed a mole in Mycroft's office. And unless Andrea and/or Puri had been gossiping in the lunch room about Sherlock's false identities, it was one or both of them. The time stamp of the markers—six hours after Mycroft had instructed Andrea to hand over surveillance of the accounts to Puri—indicated that Puri had passed the fact of the accounts' existence to Blythe, who had sent his people after them. 

On one hand, Blythe tracking the accounts accomplished a vital goal regarding Sherlock's safety: getting the fact of his planned trip to India to Blythe without any suspicion raised of Mycroft's involvement. And viewed objectively, confirmation of the existence of a security leak in Mycroft's office was invaluable; the fact that it might be the person who worked most closely with him and upon who he depended for the smooth operation of his office was a significant dampener on his gratification.

But first, Puri had to be dealt with. Once she was out of the way, he could isolate Andrea before launching another set of tests to determine if she was involved. Of course there was always the possibility that Andrea was the mole and that she was solely responsible. She might have waited to act until there was someone else involved, who Mycroft would be more inclined to blame for the leak. And once Puri was gone, Andrea might revert back to a waiting game. While not an agent or analyst, Andrea was clever enough and familiar enough with Mycroft's methods, to play the game at this rudimentary level.

Mycroft knew he needed to be scrupulous in his detachment from any emotion that might be elicited by the idea of Andrea's possible betrayal. Sentiment was to be quashed mercilessly; he required complete clarity. But the thought of having to find another assistant in the middle of the mess he was currently in did not improve his mood at all. To Mycroft's consternation, Blythe was pulling ahead, having won the two most recent skirmishes in the ongoing war. And Mycroft was damned if he was going to let the man take the next one.

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's Sherlock up to this week? Find out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/11898491).


	3. There was absolutely, positively, no reason to panic

**Saturday, January 17**

Mycroft looked over the pile of notes, hastily cobbled-together “reports”, stream-of-consciousness conjectures and documented dead ends that comprised the raw data of Puri’s efforts to trace the source of the broadcast hack over the previous two weeks. The two seconded technicians who had been assisting her had done their best, but Mycroft knew his entire day would be consumed by ploughing through this detritus and, in essence, doing the job of his now-disgraced head of IT support. For Mycroft’s discoveries the previous day had called into question everything the woman had said or reported to him, at least since he had returned from the airfield with Sherlock.

Mycroft had always known that the higher up the greasy ladder of power he climbed in his career, the more dependent he became on people like Andrea and Puri to collect information on his behalf, assess it, refine the most relevant and valuable, and present it for his rapid review and ingest. _Raw_ data was the intellectual equivalent of legwork: tedious, largely unproductive, and a waste of his valuable time. But his other option was to take what Puri had given him on the trust he now strongly suspected she no longer deserved. So here he was, wasting his first day away from the office in over a month. His nascent rebelliousness threw up the idea of seeing what Sherlock could make of it all, but that would just cause a different set of problems.

His immediate challenge was to somehow distil the mess in front of him into a convincing narrative that he could present to the Cabinet as some sort of progress, while expunging all references to the possibility of the attack having originated in America. Because whoever had told the CIA that Sherlock was responsible for Magnussen’s death was likely going to be in that room, and Mycroft didn’t want them warning anyone that Mycroft was on their tail. For he was convinced that the same person was the source of inside information for both the CIA and the broadcast hackers.

Thoughts of America and the CIA inexorably drew his mind towards his current situation. Over the past two weeks he had refused to debase himself by going cap in hand to Ted Fisher, or worse, Nick Jorgenson, to beg for the identity of the person who passed along that intelligence about Sherlock. Doing so would have accomplished nothing other than further diminishing Mycroft in their eyes. And he couldn’t help feeling that his involvement would only hinder the case, considering the strain between Mycroft and his former American associates. This despite the fact that none of them would be grieving Magnussen; the man had been as loathed and feared in his adopted homeland as he had been in Britain. But Magnussen technically had been an American citizen, a very high profile one and patron of many powerful men. Mycroft recognised that the CIA and Secretary of State had had no choice but to pursue the matter, regardless of the personal opinions of everyone involved. The pride of nations always must be served.

Since the murder, Mycroft had surmised that there were people in both governments who assumed that he had set Sherlock on Magnussen, with the goal of disgracing him, at the very least. And it would be disingenuous for Mycroft to claim that the thought had _never_ crossed his mind over the years. But Sherlock’s “solution”? Not even Mycroft would have countenanced it, even though it would have served his own personal interests and resolved at least two long-standing irritations.

In that act, Mycroft saw nothing but Sherlock’s fear and desperation, combined with his usual thoughtless lashing out at an enemy that had clearly bested him. Mycroft wasn’t sure how to respond other than his lifelong instinctual protectiveness, though he knew that this time it wouldn’t be enough. There was no tarpaulin in the world large enough to cover up this particular consequence of Sherlock’s inability to cope with realities beyond those of his own construction. Ever since he had learnt of Elizabeth’s Smallwood’s visit to Sherlock after Magnussen’s testimony, Mycroft had sensed that something like that would happen. But it was just the start. And loath as he was to admit it, Mycroft had little leverage with the woman at the moment, regardless of her _almost_ acknowledging her role in initiating the disaster. So now Mycroft had to plan around her, address other contributing factors, deal with things indirectly, mitigate one of the unbalancing factors in his brother’s life. While calculated risks were one of the cornerstones of his work, Mycroft knew that in this particular case his algorithms had failed him utterly, and that now he faced an even greater risk than the plan he’d initiated two years ago.

~ + ~

**Sunday, January 18**

Entering the third hour of the briefing on developments in Syria, Mycroft was barely able to resist the urge to begin banging his head on the conference room table. Across from him, the junior Foreign Office minister droned on, reading aloud the dense text on his Powerpoint slides (72 of 114, Mycroft noted with a sinking heart). _Of all the things to be doing on a Sunday evening_ , he mused, trying not to think about his cancelled dinner reservation. As slide 72 transitioned to slide 73, he felt his phone vibrate: a call from Sherlock. He sent it through to voicemail, and fifteen seconds later—as he knew it would—another one followed. Sherlock must want a favour, the only time he initiated contact with a call. Eventually, pique must have won out, as Sherlock then reverted back to a text. The content of the message caused Mycroft to immediately question its source.

_Come over for dinner?  
SH_

Mycroft barely managed to suppress a chortle of derision, then tucked his phone below the edge of the table to type out his reply, ignoring the Foreign Secretary’s glare.

_Who are you and how did you acquire my brother’s mobile?  
M_

_Very funny. Where’s your sense of adventure?  
SH_

Mycroft wanted to reply, “Strangled by the flow chart on slide 28,” but restrained himself.

_The same place as my sense of humour. Absent since birth.  
M_

_Sense of responsibility, then.  
SH_

_I’m required to allow you to give me food poisoning?  
M_

_Mary taught me how to make lasagna. Nothing else to do with my time.  
SH_

_Lasagna? How prosaic. Perhaps we should have a ‘pot luck’ some time.  
M_

_And the other I know very well not to be true.  
M_

_And yet you refuse to act on that knowledge.  
SH_

Mycroft sighed under his breath, but not quietly enough, as the Deputy Director of MI6 gave him a stern look out of the corner of his eye. Probably just jealous, Mycroft thought, as he knew the man had been forced to sacrifice an evening with one of London’s most exclusive male prostitutes in order to attend that evening’s festival of pain.

_I have other responsibilities right now, Sherlock.  
M_

_The queen can have someone else lay at her feet and light her cigs.  
SH_

For about the eight hundredth time, Mycroft succumbed to a wave of regret over involving his brother in the Adler Affair; Sherlock’s contact with the periphery of the Royal household would haunt Mycroft for years.

_Very droll. Sorry, no, I meant dull.  
M_

_Unlike you, I’m inherently incapable of being dull.  
SH_

_Much as I’m enjoying this little distraction from the Syria crisis, I’m afraid I must get back to work.  
M_

_So you are responsible for that. I did wonder.  
SH_

_I’ve seen your handiwork with John. Very thorough.  
SH_

Mycroft did his utmost not to roll his eyes; if he had, the Foreign Secretary probably would have grabbed the projector remote out of the junior minister's hand and fired it at Mycroft's head, and the last thing Mycroft needed was to give the man another brickbat to beat him with in Cabinet briefings. His leaden and childish attempts at wit were tedious enough already.

_Which particular delusion is that statement in reference to?  
M_

_He’s not going anywhere.  
SH_

Oh, Sherlock, you idiot, Mycroft thought as he typed. 

_Was the matter ever in doubt?  
M_

_Because he’s twice the man you are and you’ve always been wrong about him.  
SH_

For a few seconds, Mycroft stared at the words, his thoughts running in five directions at once. It was obvious he’d been correct in his suspicions about John’s response to seeing Sherlock murder Magnussen. But recent events had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that now was not the time for a complete break, which would further disrupt Sherlock's ability to function, and endanger all of them. Mycroft was still puzzled by John's reaction to his request on the aeroplane that morning; Mycroft had never held John's judgement in high regard, but he had always seemed to be a man of his word. Had hope caused Mycroft to misinterpret John's response? And why was Mycroft surprised by John's withdrawal, when he had been anticipating it since Christmas?

For two years, Mycroft had been walking a tightrope over the John Watson issue, and while he had been glad to see some movement in the right direction the previous spring, it was obvious now that the changes had occurred too rapidly for Sherlock to be able to cope appropriately, resulting in drugs re-entering the picture. Mycroft had always known he was taking a risk with his current course of action on the “Watson file”, but it had always been a rigorously-calculated one. And the potential long-term benefits to Sherlock were too great to ignore; to avoid the risks for the sake of his own peace of mind would be irredeemably selfish. That said, Mycroft's plan had to be set aside for the time being, and he was concerned that John needed to be convinced of the danger of his current course.

Under the table, Mycroft sent a text to Andrea; she would make the arrangements. 

He drew himself away from thoughts of his brother and re-emerged mentally into the horror of slide 81. A side-glance to his right revealed he’d missed nothing, judging by the glassy-eyed stare of the Deputy Director. Losing his concentration for the moment, he allowed the CIA liaison, sitting at the far end of the table, to catch his eye. The man looked away with a smirk and this time Mycroft didn’t hold back the urge to send a hint of disdain in reply. Mycroft had been incorrect when he’d told Sherlock he was surrounded by goldfish. He was, in fact, surrounded by _children_.

~ + ~

**Monday, January 19**

“Doctor Watson's shift at the clinic is scheduled to finish at 6.00. Ordinarily that would have him leaving around 6.15 or 6.20.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft looked up from his laptop to Andrea, who nodded. As she left, Mycroft calculated that picking up John and giving him a lift home to the suburbs would leave Mycroft enough time for his other commitment that evening. While he performed his daily routine of reviewing surveillance reports, a call came in from Lestrade.

“I won't take up too much of your time. I wanted to tell you the Met's closed the file on the broadcast hacking.”

Suddenly, Lestrade had all of Mycroft's attention, other than that portion fuming at the Met Commissioner's obstinate stupidity. “And how did you come across that piece of information?”

“Friends in low places.”

“What—” Then Mycroft caught the allusion, remembering the interior configuration of New Scotland Yard. “Ah, yes.”

“Anyway, just thought you might like to know. I'd have come by, but I'm stuck in meetings all day.”

“Yes, thank you, Lestrade.” For a moment Mycroft wondered why the other man hadn't rung off, then Lestrade continued.

“Have you had any contact with the Watsons since—that day?”

Mycroft was famous for not believing in coincidences and he wondered what had happened to bring on this particular question just as he was planning one of what John insisted on calling his “kidnappings”. “No,” was all he said while he wondered if the other man remembered that his calls were most likely being monitored.

“I saw them last Friday. John's been—well, a bit off recently.”

“Oh?” Mycroft debated turning most of his attention back to the interminable report on upcoming European Parliament legislation he had to plough through, if Lestrade would insist on trying to involve Mycroft in other people's emotional crises.

“Anyway, I had a good chat with Mary and she said she's going to keep an eye on Sherlock; John's supposedly working stupid hours at the clinic and he's barely going to have time to sleep for the next few weeks. And she's worried about him, too.”

 _That was not the arrangement_. Mycroft did not like the idea of Mary Watson further involving herself in Sherlock's life, but he supposed it was a slight improvement on Sherlock thinking that neither of the Watsons had time for him anymore. That would come soon enough, when Mary Watson was delivered of her child near the end of the month. 

All things considered, Mycroft supposed there was little he could do about the situation; if John Watson suddenly found himself working fewer hours he would know exactly who was behind the change, and Mycroft couldn't know if John's response would be to give more attention to Sherlock, anyway.

“Thank you for letting me know.”

“Yeah, I was thinking you might be getting up a kidnapping party right about now.” Mycroft was glad the man wasn't there to see his surprise. “Going after John's probably not a good idea. You were right before; he seems pretty messed up about things, but he'll come right in the end.”

Mycroft wondered what constituted “right” in Lestrade's world. Probably John following Sherlock around like an enraptured puppy, Sherlock performing deductions for him, the two of them acting like overgrown schoolboys bunking off from classes. He wondered what roles Lestrade saw Mary Watson and Incipient Baby Watson playing in this fairy tale vision. “Yes, well, I will admit I have had some concerns lately about John's behaviour. I will take due consideration of your advice, Lestrade.”

“All right, then. I'll let you get back to your day.”

They signed off and Mycroft sat back in his chair. _Kidnapping_. John Watson had led a very sheltered life if he thought being kidnapped was anything like Mycroft's little impromptu meetings. For one thing, as a general rule people made it out of them alive.

~ + ~

Another day, another surveillance report from the indefatigable Mrs Fraser, Mycroft thought as he opened the folder on his crossed knees. While he was glad to see Sherlock out and about the city a bit, the fact that this was in pursuit of one of Lestrade's cold cases tempered Mycroft's pleasure somewhat. It spoke of dead ends presenting themselves disturbingly early in Sherlock's investigation, and uncharacteristic acquiescence to the situation. Mycroft wondered if Sherlock was just trying to lull MI5 into a false sense of security before his mad dash to India. He also wondered if Sherlock was relying on his anticipated conversation with the Adler woman to provide him with the information he needed to kick-start things. For that wasn't going to happen, and Mycroft couldn't help but wonder how Sherlock would react to this denial, on top of all the others.

The continuing absence of John Watson was still a concern, regardless of Lestrade's assertions that it was not due to increased strain in the friendship. The information that Mary Watson was stepping into the breach in her husband's absence—which Lestrade had likely meant as a reassurance—had only increased Mycroft's anxiety.

Seeing Sherlock bumbling around London on his own, ignoring his official assignments and wasting time on irrelevancies was uncomfortably familiar, too much like eight or nine years ago for Mycroft to take much pleasure in seeing Sherlock at least working on _something_. And while he saw no obvious signs Sherlock was using, he'd recently learnt that his brother now was able to hide that even from Mycroft.

As Peterson navigated the evening traffic, Mycroft thought back over the previous week and couldn't help a sense of dismay that it had been that long since his previous conversation with Christina. While the demands of his current situation had prevented an earlier second approach, he thought the extra cooling-off time might unintentionally have served his interests.

It took Mycroft longer to find the classroom than he'd expected, so Christina's lecture was already over by the time he arrived. He entered the hall just as she opened the presentation to questions. He had never seen her in operation in a professional capacity and so was curious. Her demeanour was a pleasant surprise: engaged with her audience, encouraging to the less assertive members (many of whom appeared to be students), and politely dismissive of egotists and time-wasters. He didn't recognise this woman, so unlike the sullen, judgemental one he'd dined with. 

After twenty minutes, as the clock on the far wall ticked up to nine pm, Christina wound up the session, thanking the organisers and members of the audience for their attention and questions.

Dressed as he was, Mycroft drew overtly curious looks as the rather scruffy students and academics filed past to the exit at the back of the room. After the last hanger-on had been gently shaken off, Mycroft approached the front of the room, where Christina was packing her laptop. 

She glanced up at him as he joined her. “Developing an interest in the wonders of digital record-keeping?”

“Considering the importance of data to my work, I probably should.”

She smiled. “I can send you some literature if you like.” He was surprised to hear an edge of friendly teasing in her tone, and as always he wondered what game she was trying to play. She gave him a questioning look as she pulled on her coat.

“I was in the neighbourhood and thought you might welcome a lift home. Richmond is on my way.”

“And you just happened to know I was here tonight?”

“I know you teach on Monday evenings. Standard security assessment, let me assure you.”

“And I take it the standard security assessment discovered that my driver's daughter broke her arm at gymnastics club this afternoon and he had to take her to the hospital.” 

By the time she'd hefted her bags, she'd made up her mind, and gave him a fake smile that he assumed was reserved for professional associates and strangers. “Thank you. That's very thoughtful.”

They hadn't exchanged another word by the time Peterson handed Christina into the back of Mycroft's car. She did not comment when Mycroft didn't instruct Peterson to take them to Christina's house, and Mycroft didn't bother with an excuse to cover up that oversight on his part. 

As they made their way through the West End, she turned to him with a bemused expression. “Well?”

Mycroft had not prepared for this complaisant equanimity; he'd expected arguments, denial, at best a prickly wariness. So he decided to do what he almost never did: play the situation by ear. Andrea's words after his last meeting with Christina had waited coyly on the sidelines during his planning, but he'd decided that course was irresponsibly risky without raising the likelihood of success.

Christina continued to wait for his response, her demeanour relaxed but alert, much as it had been at the front of the classroom. 

“I will not repeat my request from the last time we met.”

“You found someone else. The policeman or the doctor?”

“Yes.” Mycroft thought he'd hidden his surprise, but she smiled again, though this one was less friendly. “You're astonished I know how to use the internet. That's illuminating.”

“That is not what—”

“Yes it is. You still think I'm a moron. A brainless thug. A sabre-wielding buffoon—”

“I'm flattered you remember my words with such precision after all these years.”

“I embroidered them on a pillow. I cry myself to sleep on it every night.”

He couldn't help himself; he laughed out loud, breaking the threatening tension. “My apologies.”

“For saying it then, or for still thinking it now?”

He sighed. “Christina, for heaven's sake.”

“Sorry.” She was back to mild teasing. “Neither of us were at our best back then.”

“True,” he conceded, wondering why she was trying to take the conversation in that direction. 

“Though I think marrying Sebastian may have trumped you in the idiocy stakes.”

He chortled. “Still so competitive.”

“You're one to talk.”

He returned her rueful smile, surprised that she had broached the subject of her ex-husband. It was obviously a test, so he decided to not acknowledge it. “I suppose you had to best me at something. Eventually.”

She made a faint humming sound. “On whose behalf are you entreating my assistance tonight?”

“Mine, of course. You were correct last time—”

“Yes.”

She smiled as he essayed a faintly comedic scowl. This particular sham was exhausting and he was beginning to hate the fact he seemed to be getting nowhere with it.

“I do wonder, though,” she started, with an equally-fake expression of confusion, “What assistance I could possibly provide the man with all the legal, and more importantly, illegal, resources of the British security services at his disposal.”

Suddenly, the shamming was over and Mycroft was glad to be rid of it. Her voice was back to the snap and crackle he'd expected earlier that evening. “You're losing your grip on it all, aren't you? The enemies you made getting to the top are storming the ramparts and you're panicking.”

Mycroft didn't need to deny any of it; he suspected protests would only prolong the apparently mandatory harangue, so he settled back and in his mind began to prepare for the next morning's Cabinet briefing while Christina vented her bile. Then she surprised him. “You've spent your entire life going on about how 'caring is not an advantage'. I don't think you've ever appreciated how destructive that kind of thinking is. And now you're learning that if you'd ever cared about something other than power in your life, then maybe you wouldn't be alone right now with your back to the wall.” The words were almost gentle, as if she were genuinely attempting to soften a blow.

They were right back to square one, back to Butler's Wharf a week before and Mycroft felt a suffocating weariness drop onto his shoulders. They rode in silence for the next ten minutes or so. He couldn't help but wonder why she had so suddenly turned on him; he thought he'd begun to make progress.

When he shifted his attention from his hands grasping the handle of his umbrella to her face, she was watching him again. In the moment their eyes met he thought he saw something unexpected—sadness, perhaps—before she looked away again. But the weariness on her face he recognised from his own mirror. 

As he formulated his next attempt to sway her, the car stopped. They'd arrived at her home. “Christina, I—”

“Good night, Mycroft. Thank you.” She placed a hand on his arm for a moment, before turning to the opening door. Mycroft mentally cursed Peterson's efficiency, and bid her goodnight. In the four seconds it took his driver to return to his seat, Mycroft watched Christina traverse the walkway to her front door. She did not look back and for the first time Mycroft began to doubt his plan would succeed. 

~ + ~

**Tuesday, January 20**

There was absolutely, positively, no reason to panic. Mycroft kept repeating variations on this sentiment to himself through the meeting with the Cabinet Office Secretary. Occasionally, Mycroft caught the man staring at him over his glasses, and if Mycroft hadn't known the man to be the soulless machine he was, his expression might have been interpreted as concerned.

When Mycroft finally escaped, he immediately contacted Mrs Fraser, who informed him that her team was in position and that there had not yet been any action. Sherlock was obviously planning to arrive as late as possible for his flight in an effort to prevent Mycroft, MI5 or anyone else from doing exactly what Mycroft planned. His brother was probably indulging himself by playing silly games with the MI5 agents following him.

Whenever his anxiety pricked him, Mycroft reassured himself that Blythe's men would be there. And they would pick up Sherlock. And Mycroft could finally rid himself of the fear that had been clawing at his guts since he'd first learnt of Sherlock's plan.

They would be there. The reasoning part of his mind kept reminding his paranoid id that it was in Blythe's best interests to do so. Mycroft forced a deep breath in an effort to loosen the invisible hands around his throat, but wasn't entirely successful. He was glad to be alone; he couldn't have borne having to maintain the mask of his usual equanimity, even in front of Andrea.

As he stepped out of his car, his phone rang. It was Mrs Fraser. 

“Do they have him?”

“Yes. And it's who we expected; I recognised two of them.”

Giddy with relief, Mycroft held himself still with a hand on the roof of the car. He hung his umbrella from the top of the door and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Still a little dizzy, he closed his eyes for a moment. He sensed Peterson's concern; the man was probably wondering why Mycroft was still standing next to the still-open door.

“Thank you Mrs Fraser. Please stand your team down and report to me as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, then rang off.

Mycroft took a deep, liberating, breath. Peterson stood aside as Mycroft strode into the building. As he passed through the lobby, he felt ten years younger and two stone lighter.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Mycroft indulged in complete mundanities. After the excitement of the last few days he almost looked forward to the relative simplicity of international diplomacy. But he wasn't entirely irresponsible; he allowed a part of his mind to work on the Sherlock situation. In another corner of his mind he was—as always—working on the other nagging issue of the moment, the possibility that Puri had not been the only mole in his organisation.

After his “success” with leading Puri into revealing herself as one of Blythe's moles, Mycroft had expanded his investigation further into his IT support unit. Her two deputies were easily cleared; it was obvious they had known very little of what Puri had been working on, which was a concern in itself. Now Mycroft had to face the investigation he's been irresponsibly holding off to the end: Andrea. 

Mycroft assumed that Andrea knew Puri was under a cloud for something other than inadequate performance, as Puri had been cut out of all operations other than the broadcast hack investigation, a dead issue that only GCHQ and the Home Secretary still cared about. Mycroft planned to transfer Puri to GCHQ; “collaboration theatre” was the only use he could make of her now, and Mycroft could at least use her to appease the PM by appearing willing to work with other units.

When Andrea brought him copies of the Davos de-briefing reports from the Prime Minister's office, he asked her to stay. “There is something I need you to acquire for me.”

She sat in her usual chair in front of Mycroft's desk and for a moment he wondered if she even suspected what was coming. “I would like you to get a copy of Deborah Oppenheimer's MI5 file.”

She appeared startled but not surprised by the request. Mycroft wasn't sure if this meant anything other than that she knew he was testing everyone in his office, or if she knew she was suspected of anything in particular. It did appear that she was waiting for some sort of explanation, though Mycroft couldn't guess why. He wasn't in the habit of explaining himself to people on his staff and she rarely pried. But it seemed to him that she was trying to prey on what she assumed were his sentiments towards her, and this disappointed him. She should have known him better than that.

After ten seconds or so of silence, she stood. “Yes, sir.” Her voice revealed no sadness or disappointment, no fear or resignation, any of which might be appropriate when confronted with the fact your employer is questioning your loyalty. Mycroft wondered if he had been overestimating her observational skills, or her strategic capabilities. Or perhaps underestimating her acting talents.

Mycroft watched her depart, her usual poise intact, and allowed himself to hope now that the deed was done that he had finally given Andrea an assignment that she would fail. And for the right reasons.

~ + ~

**Wednesday, January 21**

“He's had an exceptional run. Perhaps it's time for another hand on the tiller.”

Elizabeth was careful to ensure that nothing in her demeanour revealed her true response to the Foreign Secretary's words. She continued to carefully debone her salmon as if it were the most important thing on her agenda that day and schooled her features so that any observer would conclude she was giving the notion serious consideration. She could feel the Home Secretary's eyes on her from across the table.

_Wily girl; she's never going to stick her neck out now, not this close to the election. Not unless I damned well make her._

Elizabeth realised she likely was going to be fighting this particular rearguard action on her own, regardless of the Home Secretary's dislike for Blythe and her knowledge that his elevation would be a tremendous coup for his mentor and her political rival, the Foreign Secretary.

“Perhaps.” Elizabeth paused as she worked her way through a bite of salad and watched the two politicians studiously pretend not to be eyeing each other, jockeying for position. “Though I fail to see any alternate candidates who come close to what he has consistently delivered over the years. A few pretenders,” she added as she saw the Foreign Secretary about to dive in to promote his man. “But no viable replacements.” As someone who worked closely with both Mycroft and all the aspirants and rivals for his position, she knew her opinion would carry considerable weight in the debate. But the final decision would not be hers to make. 

She continued, with a carefully constructed expression of thoughtful neutrality on her face. “My understanding is that the main cause of the situation has been removed from his oversight. Considering the challenges of the individual in question I think he's compiled a remarkable record to date. And I don't think anyone else would have been up to the challenge of managing that particular asset. We mustn't take too _bureaucratic_ an approach to the situation.” Elizabeth was glad to see that her deployment of the average Tory's most pejorative qualifier had scored a hit on both politicians. “Genius must be allowed the freedom to flourish.”

Both ministers nodded, with rote deference to the principles of genius and freedom and their need to transcend the rules that bound the ordinary. Rules that didn't apply to them as leaders of the nation, of course. Elizabeth finished her lunch as she allowed the imaginative projections of her companions to govern their attention for a few minutes.

As coffee was served, the Foreign Secretary cleared his throat and Elizabeth knew the next barrage was about to come.

“You've made some good points, Elizabeth. However, I've never thought the man entirely sound.”

She had wondered if the man would be so gauche as to take this approach at some point in the conversation. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Home Secretary bristle slightly. The woman had made a considerable fuss over the last few years about how (unlike many of her rivals jostling at the summit of the party) she wasn't a bigot. Elizabeth knew she had to parlay this source of friction between the two ministers to reinforce the other woman's spine and get her to declare her position openly. 

“I'm not sure what you're referring to, Minister. How is he 'unsound'?”

The man squirmed in his chair, the very picture of the cornered bully rocking back and forth between comforting self-righteousness and barely emerging self-awareness. “The man isn't married.”

Elizabeth carefully placed her cup back on its saucer. “I wasn't aware that marriage was a pre-requisite for public service.” She wondered if her newly-widowed state meant she needed to be watching her back.

“I don't trust a man over thirty-five who's never married.”

“That's neither here nor there,” the Home Secretary responded and Elizabeth felt a tiny internal sigh of relief. The woman had finally decided to get off the fence. “Some of the biggest idiots I know are married.” The two women shared a look that communicated the same thought: _Boris has been married twice and look at him_.

The Foreign Secretary looked as though he'd swallowed a mouthful of flies. Elizabeth wondered if he'd be so foolish as to pull out some version of his “at least he's not a woman” face-saving attempt. But no, it appeared the man had the sense to keep that particular foot out of his mouth when in the presence of the most powerful woman in the nation not named Windsor. 

Their lunch was drawing to a close and all things considered, Elizabeth was reasonably satisfied with how she'd managed to bring the battle into the open. It was a necessary first step in ensuring she had the support she needed to help fight it, though she knew that the political battle, even if won, only gained her so much.

For the organic flow of power as it sought its level could only be directed to a limited degree, regardless of their decision. Power was the ultimate free market; it was accorded on merit of one kind or another based on the current fashion in political values. And if people no longer accorded Mycroft his former respect and deference in exchange for the remarkable gifts he brought to bear, then there was little Elizabeth could do to change that. His position was largely unofficial, his power intangible. He'd had it because in the past people had given it to him voluntarily, knowing the extraordinary things he could accomplish with it. 

But it was not sufficient to have power; one must be seen by the pack to have it. To support the political economy of that power, sufficient numbers must believe in it, just as they believed in the security of the pound and that London property prices only moved in one direction. It was one of the extraordinary madnesses of crowds, and the crowd followed the trendsetters. And in politics, the closest thing to a trendsetter was a prominent front-line minister in a safe seat, in a party with a vulnerable leader.

~ + ~

**Thursday, January 22**

“I take it you’ve seen Sherlock. How is he?”

“Yeah, he seems okay. He asked me for a favour.”

“And what favour was that?”

Lestrade pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket. “Asked me to mail this for him.”

Mycroft held out his hand and Lestrade pushed the envelope across the surface of Mycroft's desk. As soon as he picked it up, Mycroft knew there was at least one other envelope inside. The outer one was addressed to the New Delhi police inspector that Sherlock had helped to a promotion as a result of his assistance in getting rid of a particularly loathsome associate of Moriarty’s.

“You know who the final destination is?” Lestrade asked.

“I have a strong suspicion. But I think you needn’t be concerned about any consequences from this.” Mycroft held up the envelope, then slid it back across the desk to Lestrade.

“You want me to mail it?”

“Please. And forward any replies you receive to Sherlock.”

He could tell that Lestrade wasn’t happy about this instruction and that the man tried to keep that fact to himself. “This is about Moriarty, isn’t it?”

“I distinctly remember you sitting in that chair less than a month ago and stating you were glad not to be involved in that case. Have you changed your mind?”

“No. But this is MI6 territory, and those guys eat up people like me for breakfast without even noticing. I think I have a right to know what’s going on if my neck’s on the line.”

Mycroft hesitated. He didn’t want to scare the man into backing out of his side of their agreement; but it was obvious that MI5 had spooked him into greater caution since his initial blasé acceptance of Mycroft's request. He nodded at the envelope. “This does not represent any significant risks for you. There is a secret behind that missive, one I think you would not want to know.”

“Why don't you let me decide how much I want to know.”

“And how would you judge that without the information you might not, in the end, want to possess?” It seemed like a reasonable question, yet it appeared to annoy Lestrade. Probably because it brought to his attention the fact he'd just driven himself into a logical cul-de-sac. “I understand your concern, Lestrade. But you must trust me on this matter; you do not want to know anything about the final recipient of that letter. And I would strongly recommend you do not press Sherlock on the matter, either.”

“You're asking me to take a lot on trust.”

“I am aware of that.” Mycroft paused and thought about what he might actually be able to tell Lestrade. Anything would appear to be a significant concession. “That letter refers to an assignment for MI6 that Sherlock completed a number of years ago; there were unexpected consequences.” Mycroft delivered the last sentence in tones he'd mastered over the decades, the ones that said “here be dragons.”

“Okay, then.”

“What can you tell me about Sherlock's state of mind at the time he handed this to you.”

“He seemed all right. A bit—not agitated, exactly.” A thoughtful expression crossed the man’s face and Mycroft kept silent to let him attempt to wrangle his thoughts without distraction. “I think something may have happened with John and Mary. A fight, maybe?”

Mycroft sighed. “I was afraid there might be fallout of this kind from the events at Christmas. I’ve long thought John wilfully blind to the realities of some of Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies. And of course, he’s never known the exact nature of Sherlock’s work beyond his silly little investigations.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I was not referring to the assistance he provides to the police services, of course, but to his ‘clients’. The little puzzles on which he wastes his gifts. Considering he was a soldier, it is strange that John does not seem able to see the world clearly at all.”

“They used to be pretty wrapped up in each other. With a kid on the way, though, he's probably wondering how to work around that. Or maybe that's just an excuse.”

“I think John has finally come to the realisation that Sherlock is not some amusing toy to be coddled and admired, but a man with profound limitations in certain areas. Now that John has seen the consequences of my brother’s sometimes brutal response to perceived threats— Well. Not that Sherlock doesn't have has his own blind spots.” Mycroft let that parting thought hang in the air. He knew he didn’t have to spell out anything to Lestrade when it came to Sherlock’s blindnesses, or defects in coping skills. “How is he progressing on the cold cases you gave him?”

Lestrade did not seem surprised by the change of subject; there was little more that needed to be said between them on the matter of Sherlock's weaknesses. “He’s doing fine. Probably cracked them all, but he’s making me do the performing seal routine if I want the solutions. This.” Lestrade picked up the envelope and placed it back in his coat pocket. “Is the cost of the first solution. I don’t want to think what he’s going to make me do to get the solution to the dog war killings.”

“What is heaven's name is the ‘dog war killings’?”

Lestrade laughed. “Old, famous cold case. Don’t worry, no actual dogs were harmed.”

“I could not care less whether any dogs were harmed. But I am curious about how the nicknames come about.”

“No idea. It sort of just happens.”

“An organic process.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“So you have no idea when he’ll contact you again.”

“Not until he needs another favour, I guess. Or when I get a response to this.” He patted his coat over the envelope.

Mycroft stood and escorted Lestrade to the door. “Thank you again for bringing this to my attention. And if you don’t hear from Sherlock again within a fortnight, please let me know. We’ll come up with some reasonable excuse for you to visit.”

“Yeah, okay. Or I could just go see him. We are friends; I don’t really need an excuse to drop by.”

Mycroft started. “Of course. My apologies.”

Lestrade gave him a strange look, a mix of bemusement and sadness and something else Mycroft sincerely hoped for Lestrade’s sake wasn’t pity. “None needed. Anyway, I’ll let you know what happens.”

They made their good-byes and Mycroft returned to the disquieting rumblings coming out of Turkey. While his eyes skimmed over reports, automatically selecting key facts and filing them away in his brain for later reference, the principal part of his mind focused on the Irene Adler situation. Mycroft wanted to believe that Sherlock's persistence in attempting contact with the woman was solely because he wanted to exhaust all possible sources of information about Moriarty and his network. Perhaps Sherlock believed this to be his only motive. But Mycroft couldn't help but remember weeks of despondency, a triumph tainted by fear and fascination, and a file with missing evidence, and wonder about the possible fall-out of her re-entering Sherlock's life.

~ + ~

**Friday, January 23**

Mycroft knew that cornering Christina in her place of work was not playing fair. But nothing about this ridiculous game he'd been forced to play was fair, so he thought he might as well spread the misery around a little. And he knew it would be best to catch her in a place where she would need to be civil, where she could not afford to cause a scene. For his plan to succeed, he would need her to listen.

After their last meeting, Mycroft had realised that Andrea's suggestion was most likely the key to cracking this particular puzzle. He had eventually accepted that Christina was going to continue testing him until he just capitulated and engaged with her in the manner she wanted. At the time he'd chided himself for avoiding that irritating fact. But then, honesty wasn't exactly valued in his usual circles, so it rarely came to mind as first or second option in any negotiations. 

The realisation had caused Mycroft to instinctively recoil at the idea; it smacked of desperation, the last gamble of the man about to disappear under the waves. The man that Mycroft had spent his life ensuring he would never be. But now he had identified the nature of her challenge to him: to see if he would change his ways for her. So he had resolved to appear to do so.

When the Archives' receptionist called Christina's office, Mycroft watched the young woman stare nervously back at him across her desk as Christina spoke at length. While he couldn't hear the words, he imagined they weren't exactly friendly. Five minutes later, a deceptively bland expression on her face, Christina appeared in the reception area. As researchers and other visitors milled around, she stared across the large open space at him for five seconds or so, before motioning him to accompany her.

Mycroft could tell from the tension in her shoulders that she was not happy to see him there. She strode through the back corridors of the building and up two flights of stairs, dodging the occasional co-worker and not acknowledging him as he followed. The moment he walked through the door, she closed it firmly behind him and turned.

“What do you think you're doing here?”

“Christina, I—”

She pointed a finger at him. “You do not get to talk right now.” He could tell she wanted to shout at him; throttling back her irritation reduced her to a choked, tight-jawed drawl. 

He waited for her to follow up that instruction with some sort of tirade, but the fight seemed to leave her almost immediately, so he began. “I wanted to see you. To explain.”

She sighed and rubbed a hand across her forehead; it was obvious that Mycroft's timing was terrible and that something else was worrying her. For a moment he toyed with the idea of coming back some other time, but he needed to resolve the situation so that he could put it aside and focus on matters of true import.

Just before Mycroft managed to reply, she cut him off. “So I'm going to get _another_ set of lies. Wonderful.” Her tone had backed down to tired sarcasm and Mycroft wondered what had been the real cause of her initial anger.

“And I did have another motive.”

“Oh, colour me surprised.”

“I wanted to apologise for not being entirely truthful when I spoke to you before.” He paused as if he were struggling to find the words he needed. And when he continued, oversold the lie to ensure she would see through it. “I—I have come to an unexpected realisation since I saw you that first day.”

She gave him a sardonic, questioning look when he stopped again.

Mycroft released his sacrificial lamb into the bear pit of their conversation. “I would like to see you. Socially, I mean.”

To his surprise, she didn't respond for a few seconds, as if she hadn't heard him. Then she drew a deep breath. “Why?”

To his chagrin, Mycroft was going to have to continue in this ridiculous vein; he chastised himself for over-estimating her this time. He couldn't believe she didn't pounce on his obvious untruth, so he gave her an even more egregious one. “I've missed you.”

“No you haven't. How could you—” She sighed. “I honestly expected something good this time.”

Mycroft couldn't understand why she wasn't angry. She knew he was lying to her, and her reaction was dismay at the poor quality of his lies. This was not the response he had accounted for when developing into his plan for their conversation. He took a deep breath, as if girding himself to essay an extraordinary risk, and launched into the second half of his ploy.

“I've always wondered why so many of our acquaintance are of the opinion that you are the solution to a problem I'm supposed to possess.”

Her expression transformed from bemused to surprised. Then she threw her head back and laughed, her true laugh, the one that seemed to possess her entirely. Mycroft couldn't help but be put off by this aspect of her nature: the déclassé, intemperate physicality of it. Things he'd once thought exotic and thrilling, but which were now repugnant to him. When her laughter began to subside, and she was once again able to speak, she replied, “Well, I'd have been willing to bet a lot that you'd never have the nerve to do that.”

Mycroft kept to himself his satisfaction at being correct about her, in the end. About being right that she would project onto his statement the meaning she'd wanted it to have. In the end he hadn't had to come up with the perfect lie; he'd only had to tempt her into deceiving herself. But he did allow her to see him relax a little. And this at least was not a fraud; he _was_ relieved to finally be making progress on one of his assignments, even if it was the least important one.

“So you finally got there in the end,” she said as she chuckled again. Now that he at last had her moving in the right direction, he allowed her the floor, which he knew would make her amendable to further suggestion. “I didn't think you ever would. Better late than never, I suppose. Though I can't help but think that was a _highly curated_ version of the truth.”

 _And the sarcasm returns in less than a minute_ , he mused, though her tone hadn't regained its previous waspishness. “In my work, honesty is almost always the most dangerous method that can be applied. Truth is the most valuable commodity on offer; it is to be husbanded and spent _very_ carefully.”

“Strategically, you mean.”

He allowed her a smile. “Of course.”

“What does Elizabeth get out of this?”

He started. That deductive leap was unexpected. “What makes you think she's in any way involved?” As soon as the words crossed his lips he mentally chastised himself for the most amateur mistake of them all.

She cocked an eyebrow and gave him a momentary, disbelieving smirk. She had caught him out in his lie. The best Mycroft could do was send back a milder version of the same before answering. “Lady Smallwood is—unfortunately—something of a romantic.”

Christina made an undignified sound in the back of her sinuses. “No, she bloody well isn't and you know it. And you still haven't explained how shagging me helps your cause, or hers.”

He recoiled at the crudity. “Christina, for heaven's sake.”

“Okay, okay. But still. What's the point?”

Mycroft had no intention of telling her the real truth, the one behind the fake truth he'd given her and which, to his dismay, she was turning over in her hands and examining with a sceptical eye. But he knew it was much too early in the game to determine whether or not he could trust her with that.

“As you know, there are a number of games in play at the moment.”

“Isn't there always?”

“Yes. Well. Recent events have put a new spin on a few of them.”

“Sherlock killing Magnussen.”

Mycroft nodded. “Among other things. A number of long-standing issues are coming to a head at once.”

“And she's trying to kill a flock of birds with one stone. You'd think by now she'd have a better handle on her limitations.” Christina sighed and sat in the chair behind her desk. Mycroft interpreted this as a cessation in hostilities and reconciled himself to a long evening of negotiations. He searched the small room until he found another desk chair half-hidden behind a rack of equipment, then wheeled it over to her and sat. She was staring out the window overlooking her desk, out to the corridor. Mycroft waited while she collected her thoughts. Patience came more easily to him now that he knew he was going to get what he wanted in the end, so he let her play herself onto the hook without further intervention from him. 

“We give her what she wants.”

Mycroft blanched. “I beg your pardon.”

Her glance back to him was almost a slap in the face. “No, you will not be required to sleep with me to keep your job.”

“Please stop saying that.” He barely noticed her softening expression as relief flooded his system.

“You really need to get over yourself. You're not all that.”

He couldn't help scowling at her and she chuckled. Mycroft felt something slot into place in the back of his mind. If Christina were much the same as when they had first met, she would take on most of the legwork now that he'd finally got her to agree to participate. All that remained was hammering out the details.

“How do you propose we 'give her what she wants'? Without, in fact, giving her what she seems to think she wants. _Or what I've led you to believe she thinks she wants_.

“We don't, and say we did.”

It was the obvious solution, he acknowledged with a nod. “We would need to be very careful.”

“Meaning _I_ would need to be very careful.”

“Christina, there will be—” 

“Because, of course, the stupid colonial is the real risk—” 

“—extraordinary attention on us. And that is not what I meant.”

“Oh, yes it is.”

To his chagrin, she was still smiling and he indulged her with a melodramatic sigh in response. She laughed and Mycroft had a sudden premonition of just how much he was going to hate all of this before the end. “In all seriousness, we will be watched closely to ensure I have not proposed this exact method of deceit.”

“Why would anyone care?”

“I am being tested, again.”

“For god's sake. Really? I'm glad I don't live in your world if this is the sort of nonsense you have to go through.”

“Indeed.” The thought of Christina as an Intelligence operative would give anyone pause. Then result in the construction of back garden fallout shelters from Chelsea to Chipping Camden.

“Well, don't worry. What do you think it was like for me when I married Sebastian? I mean, beyond the actually being married to Sebastian part.” She grimaced. “Do you think all the society matrons welcomed me with open arms? I'd stolen a prize they thought belonged to them and they were never going to let me forget I was an interloper. Every word, every tone of voice, every move I made was watched by entire covens of witches ready to pounce on _any_ single iota of weakness, any evidence of thought or deed they considered inappropriate. After that, getting one over on the leading lights of the British Intelligence establishment should be a doddle.”

Mycroft hid his doubts behind a chuckle. “We shall see.”

They sat in remarkably companionable silence for a minute or so. Mycroft felt his usual equanimity return now that he'd largely accomplished his mission; the rest of it would be maintenance from this point forward. Then she gave him a smile. “I need to get going. Stephen's coming home this weekend and god only knows the trail of laundry I'll find from the front door to the refrigerator.”

_Oh. Children. Forgot about those._

“There's no need to panic. Lucky for you neither of my children has an ounce of interest in my life.”

Now that he'd had a few minutes to think on it, Mycroft was becoming disquieted by the relative ease with which he'd manipulated her into thinking it was her idea to do exactly what he'd wanted. The possibility of having to acknowledge the existence of her children was simply too much for him to cope with at that moment. “My driver can take you home.”

“I do wonder why you think you need to keep making that offer. McLean will be waiting for me.”

“Don't your colleagues think it strange that a mid-grade civil servant has her own driver?''

“Oh, some of them absolutely hate me for it. They're squished on the Tube and trains for hours and here I am lording it over them all with my seven-minute commute and my chauffeur. But then, these are the same people who hate me on principal because I used to be married to a peer. If they only knew,” she added, her tones trailing off into the neighbourhood of bitterness.

They looked at each other across her desk and Mycroft couldn't guess why he wasn't able to think of what to say next. Then she broke the stalemate and stood, obviously dismissing him. “I'll call you about our first fake date.”

“That is precisely the sort of thing—”

“I know.” She grinned at his exasperation, then picked up her coat and handbag; she opened the office door with a “well?” look. As Mycroft followed her back to reception, he couldn't help but think, _That was as productive as could be expected._

With one less burden on his shoulders, he thought he would feel better. Given the choice, the next few hours would feature him at home, an early night, and his whiskey decanter. But that was not to be. 

 

~ + ~

Mycroft hated waiting. Even more, he hated being reactive; he wanted to act. He wanted to chase, to control. He wanted to manipulate, cajole, wheedle, convince. To swoop down on the least expecting. Bring fear into the lives of those who needed a little fear in their lives. This sitting and waiting felt—vulnerable. More vulnerable than he'd been accustomed to feeling for many years. Mycroft had long known the buffeting of winds that took place when you stood at the apex; it was a familiar, almost friendly sensation. And he'd always relished the challenge of balancing himself against the various countervailing storms that always seemed to swirl around him. The stillness of the last two weeks, though, was unnatural. As each day came and went with no word, no deed, no challenge from Moriarty's people, the still, heavy pressure around Mycroft built steadily, like a humid high-pressure system presaging the storm that was sure to come.

Mycroft cooly scanned the room around him. Superficially, everything was as it always was: the careful turning of pages and, among the younger members, muted tapping on telephones. The occasional quiet _snick_ of china cups against saucers and _thunks_ of crystal against wood. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Foreign Secretary enter the room and take his usual chair in the far corner between the window and the fireplace, and Mycroft felt his blood begin to simmer. Under pretence of looking for that day's _Telegraph_ in the pile by his left elbow, Mycroft surreptitiously watched the man. The stiffness in his shoulders stated clearly that he'd seen Mycroft in his usual chair along the back wall of the room. Mycroft smiled gently to himself, but ensured that his head was tilted in such a way that the Foreign Secretary could see his expression if the man chose to do so. But the man was already hidden behind a copy of _The Daily Mail_.

Mycroft glanced at his watch; he had ten minutes to fill before his committee meeting and a sworn enemy within his sights. The part of his mind that he'd spent almost three decades convincing the world didn't exist reared up into the front of his consciousness. His success with Christina earlier that evening had him feeling a little reckless. Well, reckless for _him_ , anyway.

 _Time to play a little game_. He pondered his choices for a minute or so, and a thin smile appeared briefly once he'd decided. The Foreign Secretary was exactly the pawn he'd have chosen. It was a pity Mycroft couldn't tell the man that his idiotic scheme was going to fail miserably. 

He leant back in his chair and crossed his legs, inching his foot toward the centre of the room slowly. He let his shoulders relax and splayed his elbows over the arms of his chair and _spread_ himself. As a boy he hadn't known exactly how he'd learnt how to make himself seem larger, more present, more noticeable to others. The reverse skill, making himself almost invisible, had taken decades to perfect, but this _enlargement_ of his presence, this pressing himself onto the consciousness of others against their will, had come to him young, before he'd even realised what it was he was doing. As an adult, he visualised it as opening his chest, like an opera singer did to take in a breath before an aria, and allowing his long limbs to lengthen, imagining his fingers stretching out at the end of his arms, his toes wriggling and pointing away from him. It never took more than ten seconds or so for people around him to sense this expansion, to become uncomfortable as his presence (if not his body) moved into their personal space, for them to move away, usually without their even noticing they were doing so. Over a distance of twelve feet it would be a challenge, but Mycroft told himself he deserved a little revenge against the man behind the most annoying of his many current problems.

He focused most of his attention across the room and after fourteen seconds he began to sense the other man's reactions: a defensive retreat into the back of his chair, knees drawn together, hands raising his newspaper to cover his face. Others in the room, if they'd been willing to break the club's ironclad rules about intruding into the privacy of others and watched, would have seen very little of interest. Two men residing behind their respective newspapers, one at ease and one increasingly not, for no obvious reason. Otherwise, there was no sign of the very peculiar (and Mycroft had to admit, childish) battle taking place.

Mycroft kept up the gentle, inexorable pressure of his simple presence, wondering if he could force the man from the room. At two minutes to the hour, when he sensed he might be about to expand his data set, he backed off, calmly retreating back into himself. 

As the minute hand of the clock above the fireplace ticked silently up to the hour, Mycroft folded his newspaper, stood, and buttoned his jacket. As he turned to leave, out of the corner of his eye he saw the Foreign Secretary drop his hands into his lap and sag with apparent relief. As the man glanced in his direction, Mycroft saw an unmistakeable expression of hatred appear on his face for a moment. The look confirmed Mycroft's opinion of the man as a complete non-entity; after all, what else could you say about someone who could be intimidated by another man doing nothing but reading a newspaper on the other side of a large room?

As he strode out, he felt a supercilious look cross his face that he knew he would pay for, but in that moment he didn't care. He knew he shouldn't place any value on such a silly little victory, but he allowed himself to relish it all the same.

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering what Sherlock and the others were up to this week? Find out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/11978354).


	4. Collateral damage was to be expected

**Saturday, January 24**

When Mycroft sat down to lunch, he pushed away the thoughts that had been occupying his day to that point. On the weekends, he always tried to give himself at least this hour of the day to put aside the cares and crises of the world and enjoy Mrs White's excellent cooking, one of the few pleasures he still allowed himself. In the end he wasn't as successful as he'd have liked, but looking back on the week just past he recognised that one potential crisis had been averted and a significant irritation had been largely resolved. All in all, he thought that an acceptable score.

As he settled into his library with his after-lunch whiskey, he turned his attention to the matter that recent distractions had kept him from: Blythe and the Foreign Secretary, Mycroft's self-indulgence the previous evening notwithstanding. He had assumed for weeks that they was at the core of many of the problems circling him and they had been allowed to pester him with irrelevancies and problems manufactured solely to dissipate Mycroft's energies. But now he could focus on them and the question of how he could begin to push back.

One thing that had become apparent over the last two weeks was the possible inter-connectivity of so many of the issues they were facing: people preventing Sherlock from succeeding in his mission, and thwarting Mycroft's attempts to mitigate the political fallout from Magnussen's murder. Blythe's ongoing efforts to drive Mycroft from his position within the government was a long-standing issue. While Mycroft had little hard evidence to suggest the broadcast hack was related to any of the above, the extraordinary timing of it spoke to a connection that all Mycroft's instincts said must be present.

Mycroft had long had a quasi-antagonistic relationship with his instincts. While they sometimes served him well, he was always on guard against their quixotic nature. On an intellectual level he rebelled against the very idea of relying on them, while still acknowledging that they had occasionally led him out of a quagmire when logic failed him, usually due to lack of data. The part of his mind that prided itself on shaving with Occam's Razor every morning claimed that a connection was the simplest explanation. He recognised, though, that he needed to ensure that his refusal to believe in coincidences did not blind him, or lead him to confirmation biases. The other trap he needed to avoid was being led astray by the desire to lay it all at Blythe's feet. This was by far the greater temptation, because if it could be proved, the ambitions and influence of one of Mycroft's most persistent and sporadically successful adversaries might be significantly curtailed.

As he pondered the web of possible linkages between all his current challenges, Mycroft briefly allowed himself to be distracted by the allure of the One Great Solution, the “nuclear option” that could cause all of them to be resolved simultaneously. It was a lovely fantasy, but Mycroft knew it was highly unlikely ever to be anything other than that.

So he took the responsible analyst's route and broke the haystack of problems into discrete bales and set his mind to them, one by one. He had known for weeks that while Blythe might not have been the most immediately pressing of his problems, setting the man back on his heels would help both Sherlock and himself. Doing so would give Sherlock breathing space and Mycroft time to untangle the political web preventing them both from doing their jobs. 

In a strange form of _homage_ , Mycroft decided to take a lesson from his opponent and attack him through his support network. Once he'd come to that decision, the choice of target was obvious: Pollay.

For years, Mycroft had wondered why Blythe kept Pollay around. Other people had often assumed that Pollay was in possession of damaging information about Blythe, who kept promoting him well above his capabilities as a reward for keeping his mouth shut. But unimaginative and lazy as Pollay was, he'd never struck Mycroft as being a blackmailer. For one thing, the man didn't have the mental capacity to organise a tea party, much less coordinate a sustained threat against one of the most powerful men in the British government. No, Blythe kept Pollay for some other purpose. From what Mycroft had observed over the years, Pollay didn't fill any of the traditional roles of retainer: bag man, hit man, yes man, flunky, Praetorian guard, or co-reveller. He was just _there_ , like a stale, ambulatory blancmange that hardly anyone noticed.

The only role for Pollay that Mycroft could see was potential scapegoat, held in reserve to either fall on his sword to deflect an attack on Blythe, or kept in hand to be thrown to the mob so that Blythe could escape responsibility for any scheme that might come back to haunt him. A tantalising, thrilling notion presented itself to Mycroft's mind and he allowed himself a little gleeful contemplation of it before forcing himself to admit that he possessed nothing he could consider evidence in support of it. But Blythe obviously placed considerable value on Pollay, and Mycroft could think of no other reason for it other than that Blythe considered Pollay some sort of “get out of jail free” card he was holding in reserve.

Pollay was the perfect target. He wasn't important, so no one other than Blythe would be upset if Pollay was taken down in the process. But his loss would send some plan of Blythe's off the rails. The immediate rightness of it made Mycroft suspicious, as if Pollay had been manufactured by Blythe solely as bait to draw Mycroft (or some other enemy) out into an open move against his creator. If so, Mycroft didn't care all that much. Pollay was going to be just another casualty, like Puri, and collateral damage was to be expected when generals faced each other in the field. If Mycroft was correct about why Blythe kept the man around, Mycroft would just be using him for his designated purpose, anyway. His only reservation was that Blythe's response would be to take revenge through Sherlock, or not react at all. While removing an enemy's valued asset had some usefulness in itself, what Mycroft needed was for Blythe to panic, make a mistake, respond rashly, initiate a play too soon, anything that would reveal a crack in his armour that Mycroft could exploit. Eight years of trench warfare had worn both of them down; Mycroft knew it was time to be bold and finish Blythe off for once and for all.

~ + ~

**Sunday, January 25**

Mycroft's phone buzzed a text alert just as he was about to get up from Mrs White's always-excellent Sunday roast. Hoping without much expectation that it might be Sherlock, he checked it immediately. He was only mildly disappointed to see Christina's name on the screen, and he wondered how she had managed to acquire his personal phone number.

_Opera?_ was all the text said and he pondered the possible meaning of it for a moment before calling her. She picked up just as he was expecting the call to go to voicemail. Judging by the rhythmic metal clanging in the background she wasn't at home, unless a foundry had been transported to Richmond in contravention of planning law and good sense.

“Where are you? It sounds like Mîme's workshop.”

He barely heard her chuckle over the noise. “At the gym. Sorry, I wasn't expecting you to call back. Give me a sec.” She paused for a few seconds and the background noise diminished. “So. I'm thinking opera for our debut. Lizzie Smallwood and her daughter have season's tickets to Covent Garden and I can't stomach ballet.”

_Lizzie? Really?_ , he thought as he pondered his answer. While he wasn't going to fight her new-found enthusiasm for their little charade, he couldn't help but wonder what was behind her efforts to further it along so quickly. “That sounds an excellent idea. I'll have my assistant make enquires as to when she'll be there and make arrangements.”

“Thursday.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She'll be there this Thursday. You might have difficulty getting tickets on such short notice, but I'm sure you can have someone bumped off if you need to.” He scowled; she must have sensed his unspoken question. “You're not the only person in the world with sources, you know.”

He felt his eyebrows shoot up at that. “I see.” He didn't bother keeping the amusement out of his voice.

“And I was thinking. “ She paused and Mycroft felt dread begin to hover on the horizon. “Perhaps we should take this opportunity to move on to the other—you know.”

“Perhaps. I'll confirm tomorrow for Thursday. We can discuss the other matter then.”

Neither of them spoke for a few seconds; he imagined she was, like him, having second thoughts about the sanity of the supplementary portion of their scheme.

“I think it's Monteverdi. _Orfeo_ ,” she finally added, switching to less sensitive matters. 

Mycroft was secretly pleased, by both the stated and unstated communication. If he was to be forced to endure opera, at least it wouldn't be that hack Donizetti. Or worse, Puccini. “I'll speak to you tomorrow, then.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Christina.”

“Not a problem.”

After he'd rung off, Mycroft stared down at his phone. He tried to ignore the turmoil he was feeling at the thought of their plan becoming reality. There really was no other feasible option, and he again wondered at her sudden enthusiasm for it now that he had finally convinced her to participate. While he recognised that he probably was giving the matter more thought than it deserved, considering the importance of other things on his list, her sudden complete turnaround had him puzzled. But she had always been volatile, he admitted with a mental shrug.

After setting aside the “Christina issue”, he willed himself to not check Sherlock's security footage. It did neither of them any good, and just increased his own anxiety. 

With a sigh, Mycroft dropped his napkin on the table and headed for his office. As he walked through the house, he looked at the rooms around him. He rarely paid much attention to his physical surroundings, as long as his needs were met. In the five years he'd lived there, he had never entertained guests other than Sherlock or his parents, and the prospect of Christina there made him uncomfortable. 

He knew it was an essential part of their ruse, but it still felt an abominable invasion of his privacy. If they were to pretend to be “dating”, they had to pretend to be sleeping together, as well. As it was obvious that whoever had initiated this farce knew of his and Christina's history, they would expect it. And it was what people did. Sleep together. But the implied domesticity of actually _sleeping_ under the same roof made him most uneasy of all the disquieting aspects of their plan, even though it was as much a charade as the rest of it.

~ + ~

**Monday, January 26**

Sometimes, Mycroft hated being right. Most of the time, of course, he revelled in it, but not in this circumstance. 

The email from Niall Carey from the Garda SDU was one of those surprising-but-not-really-surprising incidents that Mycroft found so tiresome. Why did people have so much difficulty with foresight, he wondered. After almost _seven years_ they had finally decided to share the information that Mycroft had requested about James Moriarty, and only because someone in the Irish government now wanted a favour in return. The stupidity and laziness of his “colleagues” added approximately 37% to his workload, he had once calculated, and in this case had cost lives, as well.

After emails to the Home Secretary and the President of Trinity, Oxford, Mycroft had permission to make the requested deal. By luncheon he had the SDU's file on the entire extended Dublin connections of the Moriartys.

While the report made mildly diverting reading, there was nothing in it explicitly about James Moriarty or his immediate family, other than passing mention of the emigration of Frances Moriarty, his wife and twin sons in 1983, never to return. They hadn't even bothered to note the presumed drowning of the elder son in 1992. The long wait had been for nothing of any substance.

The report focused on Frances' three older brothers, one brother-in-law and two cousins, all of whom had connections to Dublin's drug trade, and through it, indirect social connections to the IRA. But then, so did thousands of others. 

But it might be another possible linkage. Through the Moriarty family's involvement in the drug trade, the web was growing, this time to include Frank Hudson and Nick Bowman and the horrific train crash of Sherlock's “adventures” in Florida nine years before. Mycroft didn't know whether to be satisfied he had finally obtained new, possibly relevant information, or dismayed at what that information might imply: that if the elder Moriarty twin were still alive, he might have eventually been transported to America by his uncles' drug connections. So in the final analysis it just led to another dead end, one possibly ringed with tiger traps. More whispers and allusions than actual data, the report was not of much use to either Mycroft or Sherlock. If anything, knowing its contents would just send Sherlock careening off to Heathrow again, bound for America, the worst possible scenario short of a bullet to the back of the head.

Mycroft's current status as _persona non grata_ with the CIA was again stymying his efforts to get answers to what exactly was going on with the remainder of Moriarty's organisation, and now he had a legitimate cause to enquire. It was becoming critical that he find a way back into their good graces. But the Foreign Secretary's assertion that their American “friends” refused to deal with Mycroft meant that he had to find a way in through the back door. This would involve time and luck, one of which was in short supply and the other a fickle, unreliable deity who never had standing in Mycroft's plans.

No matter how he looked at it, he knew that in the end, the only play he had was the one against Blythe. And strangely enough, the wild cards in that game were Deborah Oppenheimer (possibly) and the former Lady Moran. For if Mycroft could acquire the information that Blythe obviously thought Christina possessed about her ex-husband's traitorous activities, then Mycroft would score a significant victory against Blythe. Mycroft wondered if this possibility was behind Lady Smallwood's participation in the ridiculous plot to bring him and Christina back together.

It was now obvious that what had initially seemed like many battles fought on a variety of fronts had been confirmed as only one. All the little skirmishes were part of one unified campaign to topple Mycroft from the top of the British government, and replace him as the man behind all the thrones. Even Blythe's efforts to destabilise Sherlock likely served this overall plan.

For years, Mycroft had known that one day Blythe would make his move. And Mycroft couldn't help resenting Sherlock for finally giving Blythe the opportunity he'd been waiting for. But if Lady Smallwood had sent Christina to Mycroft as some sort of bargaining chip, then Mycroft entirely really alone. Not yet. Though he knew the longer this game played out, the more questions about his abilities would be raised, and allies would start to question that allegiance. _Time and luck, time and luck_ , he mused. Husbanding his resources, indeed, he thought as he rolled his shoulders and turned his attention back to preparing for the next round.

~ + ~

**Tuesday, January 26**

Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he'd been in an enclosed space with so many people so obviously unhappy. Other than Blythe and Pollay (and why were they there, Mycroft wondered), every face round the table betrayed tension and dread.

In front of each person was a copy of the subject of that afternoon's meeting: a stack of paper, hundreds of pages thick, bristling with attached notes sticking out at all angles. Mycroft wondered what Sherlock would deduce about the characters of the participants based solely on the various colour schemes of post-it notes. 

For the last six months the Foreign Office and MI6 had been—in their quiet, deadly serious way—in a complete tizzy over what might be contained in that document, and Mycroft knew the unease hovering at the edges of his consciousness was entirely warranted. Only Blythe and Pollay, whose piles of paper were free of notes, appeared sanguine. Mycroft hoped he managed to maintain his composure better than Peter Wallace; the man's nerve had never been questioned in his more than twenty years as an MI6 field operative, but he looked as if he were at risk of a stroke. Considering how often Wallace was named in the document, Mycroft could understand the man's disquiet. As the only other person in the room mentioned in the report, Mycroft had some sympathy for him.

“Well, to start, the Foreign Secretary has indicated that he believes we should note for the minutes our gratitude to the Chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee for giving us the opportunity to provide feedback on this.” Blenner-Hassett tapped the pile of paper in front of him.

Lady Smallwood bristled at the man's attempt to take control of her meeting, and Mycroft made a bet with himself to see how long it would take her to smack the man down. 

“I don't think that's really necessary,” she replied, her tones remarkably restrained, Mycroft thought. But then, they were just starting and they had a long day ahead of them. 

“Courtesy should always be acknowledged, Lady Smallwood,” Blenner-Hassett replied. 

Mycroft resisted the urge to burst out laughing at Robin Blenner-Hassett, of all people, trying to instruct anyone on manners, much less Elizabeth Smallwood. He could tell from the woman's expression that she felt the same.

For the next hour, the group debated which revisions to the report they would request; in essence, they were deciding who would be spared being named as a British agent, analyst or administrator who had been involved in American espionage or security operations overseas, many of them politically controversial. Even in a top secret report, the consequences could be momentous for anyone so named, depending on their role and the mission in question. “Top secret” reports had a way of being leaked, as they had all been made painfully aware in the last few years.

Ever since he'd heard of the report, months before, Mycroft had been waiting for it with a rising apprehension. He had rarely had qualms about the work he'd done for the CIA over the years, even though he'd always known that at best much of it could have been considered extra-legal. But this was the nature of Intelligence work much of the time; the involvement of politicians and moralisers just meant trouble, in his experience. At best they impeded effective operations, at worst they cost the lives of agents. However, the timing of the report's arrival could not have been worse for him.

“Now we come to the Balkan war years,” Blenner-Hassett muttered, seemingly to no one in particular, but Mycroft knew the comment was directed at him. Blythe and Pollay, both entirely extraneous to proceedings and almost silent to that point, turned expressions of anticipation in Mycroft's direction. He wondered if the Foreign Secretary had made them pay for the privilege of watching Mycroft be taken down a notch or two. He thought the man could have at least had the decency to do the deed himself, rather than sending poor Blenner-Hassett.

When Mycroft had read the section of the report that addressed operations in the Balkans during the 1990s, he'd been surprised at how often he'd been mentioned. He hadn't recollected working in conjunction with the Americans as much as he apparently had during the latter stages of the war, but at that time he'd been new to the service and so had hardly been privy to the political negotiations going on behind the scenes. It was the norm for low-level agents and analysts to not know which government among cooperating allies was really driving any particular mission. But he was not surprised to learn now that most of the time he'd technically been working for the CIA, even if he hadn't known it then.

“To start, I would like to request redaction of the first three lines of paragraph two on page 147, the sixth to ninth lines of paragraph seven on page 150, and—” Mycroft began before Blenner-Hassett interrupted him.

“It is the Minister's belief that there's much better utility to requesting redactions in the next section.”

_Libya and Ethiopia_ , Mycroft mused, not at all surprised by the Minister's focus on that area. 

Lady Smallwood looked incensed at having to call out the fire brigade again in an attempt to keep the meeting on track. “Those missions had significantly less British involvement. I understand the need to be judicious in our requests, but the Balkans was a significant area of operations for a decade, and I believe we would be best served by focusing our attention on requests which will have the greatest impact.”

“We don't agree. The Balkans section stays as is—” Blenner-Hassett replied and Mycroft wondered if he was invoking the royal “we”, or if he and the Minister had come up with this nonsensical plan. Or more likely, Blenner-Hassett was hiding the fact that “we” meant the Minister parroting Blythe's words.

“There are forty-seven British operatives named in that section.” Mycroft decided to indulge himself and join in on the “talking over everyone else” that seemed to be sweeping the meeting. He wasn't going down without a fight.

“Precisely. It's too hard a sell. This is political capital you're demanding we spend on _you_ , Holmes.”

Mycroft glanced at Peter Wallace, who answered through gritted teeth. “As one of the forty-six others named in that section, and as an agent who ran missions in that region for twelve years, I imagine you'll consider my response self-interested as well, but the Minister's willingness to sacrifice forty-seven British operatives in order to cover up illegal arms sales by a major party donor and the agency's hugely misguided foray into rendition programs calls his judgement into question. With all _due_ respect.”

As the group sat in dumbfounded silence, Mycroft couldn't help but think that Wallace had turned out to be an inspired choice to represent MI6 in this meeting. As he watched the tideline of embarrassment rise up Blenner-Hassett's neck, Mycroft thought the next time he saw the Director of MI6 at the Diogenes he really must slip the man a note to commend him on his selection.

The Foreign Secretary was showing his lack of understanding of Intelligence and the men who worked in it; anyone with any sense would have known that some of those intended casualties would get wind of the conversation in the room and mobilise _their_ allies in government. Mycroft wondered if the idea had originated with Blythe, manipulating the Minister into presenting the idea as his own, knowing that it would weaken him and therefore make him more dependent on Blythe's counsel and support. But by openly going after Peter Wallace as well, the Foreign Secretary had overplayed his hand, an act that only confirmed everything Mycroft thought about the Minister.

But Blenner-Hassett was just following orders from the Minister, Mycroft knew; Robin was a failed diplomat and had the political acumen of a turnip, with about the same amount of malice. Mycroft wasn't surprised by the Foreign Secretary's campaign to throw him to the wolves; the Minister had likely been waiting, like a hound straining at the end of its leash, since the redacted version of the report had been submitted to Congress in December. But his willingness to thoughtlessly sacrifice so many others as nothing more than acceptable collateral damage had been a horrible miscalculation, based on the responses from everyone in the room other than Blythe. Though Mycroft was surprised to see Pollay's shocked expression, and it caused him to believe that this might be an appropriate time to put his little plan into action. 

Mycroft glanced across the table to Lady Smallwood and he couldn't tell if she was amused or appalled at the turn of events. Though it was unlikely she was thrilled at her meeting yet again being hijacked by the Foreign Secretary's political and personal ambitions, despite his absence.

“Shall we agree to put the Balkans aside and move on to Central America?” she finally asked the group. The tension in the room stepped down a few measures as murmurs of consent were expressed, and they moved on to productive work not clouded by the personal interests of anyone present.

As the session came to a close, and the conversation trailed off into discussion of other matters, the mysterious presence of Blythe and Pollay returned to the forefront of Mycroft's thoughts. Based on the glances Wallace had been giving the pair all day, it appeared that he just as was perplexed about the presence of two MI5 men in a meeting exclusively about foreign Intelligence matters. But the man had been in the service for more than thirty years and knew when to not ask questions.

Mycroft could see that Blythe and Pollay were preparing to leave and he decided there was no time like the present for rattling Blythe's cage a little. His decision was in no way connected to the smirk Blythe had been wearing all afternoon, he assured himself.

“Sir Edwin. I was wondering how the investigation into the broadcast system hacking was coming along?” 

Every person in the room stopped, as if starring in a film made by a director who liked to play with special cameras and green screens. Pollay sent a nervous glance to Blythe, who seemed only momentarily perturbed. Perhaps he was just shocked that Mycroft had asked him a question that gave Blythe an opening to publicly criticise Sherlock, before his usual pinched expression returned. “As well as can be expected. The press doesn't care anymore, so neither does the Prime Minister. But progress is being made.”

Mycroft smiled, showing Blythe that he understood what he meant: _No one cares about this case anymore, but I'm not closing it until I find a way to make your brother take the fall for it_.

“I've just sent my IT Director to GCHQ as liaison. So glad to hear they're still actively engaged in the investigation.” He watched carefully for Blythe's reaction to the news that Puri was no longer working in Mycroft's office. The man barely seemed to notice, but Pollay gave the game away a bit, looking to Blythe for his reaction. “But still, lucky for you that everyone's attention turned elsewhere before starting to ask uncomfortable questions.” Mycroft turned to Pollay. “And even luckier for you to not have been dragged into it at all. You can't be held responsible if it crashes down around everyone's ears.”

This comment did elicit a response from Blythe, and Mycroft was satisfied to receive confirmation of his assumptions about Pollay's role in Blythe's entourage. Pollay himself had an expression that was a mix of hostile and thoughtful, as if being forced against his will to think for himself for once, and Mycroft bade them both a good day. And despite the long, tedious hours of disputation, Mycroft was glad to acknowledge that his first move in the most recent Blythe chess match seemed to have gone off without a hitch.

~ + ~

**Wednesday, January 28**

“Told you it was creepy.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.” Mycroft turned from his laptop to Lestrade, slumped in the chair on the other side of Mycroft's desk. “But you obviously do not think this represents a threat of any kind to Sherlock.”

“Do you?”

“Anyone who would want to threaten him would hardly advertise their intentions in this way.” Mycroft turned back to the screen showing the Instagram account of some person who appeared to have a peculiar obsession with Sherlock's work.

“Well, you're the one who knows the people who want to take him down.”

“Was this trip to Golders Green in aid of one of your cold cases?”

“Yep. He might be starting on the Robichaud case next; we talked about it tonight.”

Mycroft could tell that Lestrade still had reservations about that particular case, most likely because it didn't show Lestrade in a good light, either as a veteran DS or a newly-minted DI.

“You said before it was connected to what Sherlock did in Florida. How exactly?”

“Did I mention Florida?” Mycroft paused to recall the conversation three weeks before. “Did you deduce that yourself, Chief Inspector or did Sherlock tell you?”

“Does it matter? I can add small sums in my head, you know.”

Mycroft told himself the man was not attempting to flirt with him. Lestrade was probably considered charming by those of his social milieu and so his fumbling efforts were likely an unconscious and automatic response, rather than a conscious attempt at someone not appropriate to his orientation or social standing. So Mycroft decided to ignore it in the hope the man got to grips with himself without Mycroft having to take action. He gave Lestrade a thin smile for one tenth of a second. “Yes, I imagine you can.”

“There was one thing, though. Someone's fiddled with the files.”

“What?” Mycroft froze in his chair for a moment and Lestrade noticed with a very slight nod.

“Yeah. No kidding. What little decent evidence I managed to scrape together the second investigation was gone from the file.”

“You did not review the file before giving it to Sherlock?”

“Yeah, yeah, he gave me a bollocksing for that already, thanks. I didn't think there was any reason to. It was my first big case after I got the bump up to DI; I remembered it fine, thanks.”

“Of course. What was missing?”

“The transcript of the second interview with the son, most of the useful scene photos, some of the background information on the Bowmans.”

“Do you have any particular suspects?”

Lestrade didn't respond for a few seconds and Mycroft wondered if it was because he hadn't yet given the matter any thought and was finally doing so now, or that he had a suspect and didn't want to name them for some reason to do with Met internal politics which interested him not at all.

“Well, Tony Michaels came to mind first off. Bent arsehole, useless copper, son-in-law of one of the Deputy Commissioners back then.”

“I can see why he would come to mind.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Almost too perfect a suspect; always be suspicious of those. Do you want me to take it back?”

“No, let Sherlock run with it. Let's see what he finds.”

“Okay.”

“How did he seem?”

“Fine, actually. The crap case file came across a treat. He moaned about it for a while but I could tell he was thrilled. You know how he likes to think everything in the universe's connected, like some massive conspiracy against him.”

Mycroft gave the man a short, faint huff of an almost-laugh as his mind worked on the possibilities extraneous to the Met as to why the Robichaud case might have been tampered with. “Let's see what he makes of it. I don't imagine there's been a response to Sherlock's letter.”

“Nope. It's only been a week. It probably hasn't got to it's final destination yet.”

As Lestrade watched him, open curiosity on his face, Mycroft wondered why the man had thought he'd needed to visit Mycroft's office and disrupt his schedule. A text with a link to the account would have been sufficient. He thought Lestrade might be getting too attached to his “spy” role.

He wanted the man to leave, but Lestrade just sat there like a rumpled lump. He glanced back to Mycroft's laptop, which still displayed the Instagram account of Sherlock's “stalker”. “You think you know who's behind that.”

“I have a very strong candidate.”

“And you're not sharing.”

“They are not breaking the law, and I do not believe they form any real threat to Sherlock, so it hardly would be appropriate to waste Met resources on them.”

“Her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You think it's a woman, or you'd say 'him', but you don't want me to know you think it's a woman, so you said 'they'.”

“Oh, that's quite well done, Lestrade. We'll make a detective of you yet.” Lestrade's answering scowl told Mycroft that his attempt at levity had fallen spectacularly flat.

“I see pettiness runs in the family, as well as brains.”

“Touché, Lestrade. My apologies.”

The man chuckled. “You ever try to teach your bother that word?”

“Years' worth of failed efforts have gone into trying to teach Sherlock that particular word and the sentiments behind it. I think if he ever learns that lesson, it will have to be John Watson that gets through to him.”

“Yeah, probably. So, did you end up going through with your kidnapping the other day?”

Mycroft frowned at Lestrade's insistence on the term “kidnapping”. “No. I decided to follow your advice. I am not happy with how the Watson situation is playing out, but I take your point about being seen to meddle, and exacerbating the situation.”

Lestrade grinned at him. “That's a novel experience, a Holmes taking my advice.”

Mycroft gave him a tight little smile in acknowledgement but not encouragement. This time Lestrade seemed to take the hint. Or perhaps his new friend was waiting for him in a pub somewhere. 

Regardless, the man finally stood and made desultory efforts to straighten his coat. “I'll let you know if Sherlock comes up with anything on the Robichaud case. Or anything else. You know.”

“Thank you, Lestrade. I know the risks you're taking getting involved. I do appreciate your efforts in this matter. Not just the cases—”

The man gave a tired, dismissive wave. “Yeah, I know. I'm not doing it for you.” As soon as he said the words, Lestrade gave him an apologetic look.

“I know that, as well.”

“'Course you do.” Lestrade's grin was back and Mycroft wondered if he had somehow managed to deduce that it annoyed Mycroft and so was doing it to irritate him.

“Is there anything else?” Mycroft replied in his best “wrapping up the meeting” voice, which he hoped would finally get Lestrade out of his office so that Mycroft could go home.

“Yeah, no. I'll call if there is anything.” With another wave, the man was _finally_ gone and Mycroft could end another seemingly-interminable day.

~ + ~

**Thursday, January 29**

When Mycroft heard the car pull up in front of his building, he glanced out the window to confirm it was Christina's. He had already informed the security staff that she would be coming, so she was let up to his floor immediately. He met her at the door of his apartment and he could tell that she was out of sorts.

“Bad day?” he asked as he took her coat. 

She just sighed and stretched as if she'd been hunched over a computer all day and was just now entering recovery mode. “I've had worse.”

He led her into the library and poured each of them a whiskey. “Marvellous, thank you,” she said as he handed her a glass, and they sat in facing chairs in front of the fire.

“Dinner should be in about ten minutes. I thought it best we stay in this time.”

She obviously caught his meaning and cocked an eyebrow. “Opening night jitters?”

He chuckled. “Perhaps.”

“You'll do fine.”

“It's not myself that I'm worried about.”

She gave him a mock salute with her glass before taking another sip. 

The action reminded him of someone else, but he couldn't think who in that moment, so he put the idea aside as irrelevant. As they waited for Mrs White to announce dinner, the conversation was light, mostly about Christina's work, and of no consequence at all. 

After dinner, Mycroft waited in the library while Christina “pulled herself together”, as she'd put it. When she reappeared, she had changed into an aubergine silk dress that made Mycroft think of Sherlock. It looked to weigh nothing at all, and for a moment he wondered why her garment bag had been heavy before he remembered: her clothes for the next day. In the morning she would be going straight to the Archives from his apartment.

As they walked to the door, she asked, “You have the tickets?”

He gave her a withering look, under which she did not wilt at all.

“Well?”

To placate her, he checked and indeed the tickets were still in his pocket, where he had placed them after Andrea had given them to him that morning. “A pity about the scheduling. _Andrea Chénier_ ,” he added with what he knew was a slightly sour expression.

She chuckled. “Yes. I imagine you're feeling a little sensitive about guillotines right now.” He let out a short huff of laughter as she continued. “I'd have preferred _Orfeo_ , but it had to be tonight, so—”

“A number of our targets are attending this evening.”

“ _Targets_. Now I really feel like a spy.”

He sighed as he held out his hand for her shawl. “I'd have preferred the Monteverdi, as well.”

She handed it to him and he draped the fabric around her shoulders. “Into the breach,” she muttered as she shut her evening bag and gave him a rueful smile, which he returned as he held the door for her.

They each kept to their own thoughts as the car slid through the evening traffic to Covent Garden. Mycroft read Mrs Fraser's most recent surveillance reports on Baker Street and the Watsons' home. On arrival, as Mycroft had hoped, the first person they saw that they knew was Lady Smallwood. She was standing alone at the edge of the crowd in the lobby, and seemed genuinely pleased to see them. She greeted Christina with a warmth Mycroft found suspicious until he remembered that the two women had known each other for years, if not well.

Andrea had done her usual excellent work; their seats were almost immediately behind those of Lady Smallwood and her daughter. The three women chatted amiably about the opera, other performances they had attended recently, and family matters. Mycroft scanned the house and was unsurprised to see Blythe and his wife in one of the boxes to the left of the stage. As Mycroft watched, Blythe looked his way, then gave a pointed look at Christina chatting with the Smallwoods. Mycroft gave a slight smile in reply to the other man's cool stare. 

As the house lights dimmed, Christina leant back in her seat and whispered in his ear, “Let the bellowing commence.” He couldn't help a chuckle and saw Lady Smallwood'd head tilt slightly back, catching the end of their interchange.

Throughout the performance Mycroft occasionally glanced at Christina and found her watching the stage, apparently relaxed. He never caught her looking at him; he might as well not have been there, now that they were no longer under Lady Smallwood's scrutiny. For some reason, he found Christina's lack of interest somewhat reassuring.

When the bellowing ramped up for the traditional crescendo denoting the end of an act, Mycroft turned his attention to Blythe. The man was watching the singers while his wife fidgeted at his side. As Mycroft watched, the other man must have sensed the attention and as he began to turn his head, Mycroft shifted his attention to the stage. From what he could tell, the evening seemed to be adequately fulfilling its role in Mycroft's plan; everything was going according to plan. So he couldn't fathom why he still sensed an undercurrent of tension. Perhaps it was just a manifestation of his unease about being there with Christina and her role in their little farce.

At the interval they joined the Smallwoods in the crush near the bar. As Mycroft waited in the mob-like queue, the pattern recognition functionality of his brain engaged subconsciously and tweaked his attention, directing it to two elderly women standing at the edge of the crowd. One of them Mycroft would have sworn was one of his mother's oldest and closest friends. Hoping she hadn't seen him and Christina together, he groaned a little under his breath, drawing the attention of the man standing to his left.

“Beastly business, isn't it?” he said in the false spritely tones of attempted fellowship in suffering that was so quintessentially English, but which Mycroft had always found irritating. He gave the man a polite smile of equal falseness in reply. His arrival at the front of the queue thankfully saved him from having to engage in conversation with a stranger.

Mycroft wormed his way back to the edge of the crowd, where Christina waited with the Smallwoods. They were discussing the relative merits of Giordano and Rossini; Christina appeared to be mostly just looking on, her usual bemused expression concealing what Mycroft suspected was the urge to be dismissive. The conversation veered off to Puccini and when Christina admitted she'd never attended a performance of any Puccini opera, Amanda Smallwood-Barnes was scandalised.

“What? Not even Butterfly?”

“Oh, I've heard all the loud bits,” Christina replied in self-defence. “When I was young you couldn't avoid it at a certain kind of party.” Mycroft choked a bit on his drink and coughed as she continued, ignoring him. “I've never been an admirer of Puccini. I like to think it's not just because of the unfortunate association with drag queens. But to each their own.”

“And what did you listen to in your youth, then?” Lady Smallwood asked her.

Mycroft remembered Christina's room at Nuffield, with its strange collection of fencing equipment, computers, stacks of CDs and novels by authors whose names he hadn't recognise.

“Mostly popular music, the same as everyone else. By the time I was at Oxford I'd fallen pretty hard for blues. Some jazz. Old jazz, not that modern nonsense.” She turned to Mycroft. “I never dragged you to that blues club Harry and I used to go to, did I?”

“No. Forewarned is forearmed.”

She laughed. “Yes, you would have hated it, wouldn't you?” Christina turned to Lady Smallwood and her daughter, who seemed agog at the idea of the infamous Mycroft Holmes having ever been young, with the potential of blues clubs in his life. “There was a wonderful club in Oxford that I used to drag Harry Abernathy to whenever he wasn't off bossing people around in foreign parts—”

“You do have the most appalling taste,” Mycroft interrupted before she could descend into embarrassing reminiscences of their brief friendship at Oxford. He was glad that she caught his signal and changed the subject without batting an eye. 

“So says the man who prefers Mozart to Bach.”

Lady Smallwood, sharp as a tack as always, noticed the expertly-executed course change. Mycroft caught a shared glance between the woman and her daughter. He had to admit, once Christina had agreed to participate in his little farce, she was willing to pull out all the stops.

“So says the woman who claims _Don Giovanni_ as her favourite opera,” Mycroft replied, deciding to join in the spirit of the game, which he thought only fair as he'd insisted on introducing it.

Fortunately for Mycroft, the five-minute warning chime rang out and they all returned to the house before he could make a fool of himself. Christina gave him a slightly apologetic look as they sat and he made a brief “think nothing of it” shrug that communicated the camaraderie he wanted Lady Smallwood to perceive as she took her own seat nearby.

The rest of the evening passed without incident, other than the parlous state of his eardrums by the end. Mycroft shook his head slightly in a vain attempt to rid himself of the persistent vibration as they walked through Covent Garden to meet Peterson with the car. “I wanted to thank you. For agreeing to this.”

Christina turned to him. “You're welcome.” She slid her hand under his arm, as she'd done the afternoon of their first lunch. A few moments later she slipped on the wet cobblestones and swore as she grabbed his shoulder with her other hand. “Sorry about that.”

“Think nothing of it.” He waited as she tested her ankle, wincing.

She looked up at him. “It was interesting. And more enjoyable than I'd expected.” She continued on, limping slightly.

“Regardless of the Giordano.”

She laughed. “Yes, regardless of the Giordano. And the sprained ankle.” Mycroft suspected there was more she wasn't saying but thought it best to leave the issue be. Pressing her at this stage would likely just cause one of her irritating outbursts.

When they arrived back at Mycroft's Pall Mall apartment, neither of them were in the mood for sleep, so they sat in the library with brandies. To distract himself from the persistent irritation of having someone else in his home, Mycroft decided to pretend to be at the office. He therefore brought up a matter he'd been hoping to discuss with her from the beginning, but hadn't yet had the opportunity.

“How well do you know Deborah Oppenheimer?”

“That's not in my file?” she snapped back, apparently without thinking, as she gave him an apologetic little smile immediately after.

“Only how long you've known her. Security files tend to be strong on the quantifiable, less so on intangibles.”

She rolled her glass between her hands for ten seconds before answering. “I know Maris better, of course. Sebastian has always been fond of her; they were quite close for cousins growing up, even with the age difference.” She paused for a moment. “Maris was the first person in his family that Sebastian introduced me to. Funny, I'd forgotten about that.”

Mycroft plotted and embarked on a path back towards the point. “You're still in contact with her?”

“You know I am. You need to train your surveillance people better, you know.” She gave him one of her crocodile smiles. “But I never knew about Deborah being MI5.”

“Well, that would have been exceptionally lax of her, wouldn't it? And strictly speaking she hasn't been for some time. But she does do work for them on an ad hoc basis.”

“Like handling your brother.”

“Apparently. Though I imagine it's as much psychiatry as 'handling'.”

“Why do you think that happened?”

Again, Mycroft wondered if it was just serendipity that she was leading the conversation back to where he'd wanted, or if he had suddenly become much more transparent. He suspected it might be the former; Christina seemed genuinely curious. For a few seconds he toyed with the idea of sharing some of his real thoughts on the matter, then decided that it was too soon. “Sherlock has, shall we say, a bit of a reputation in the Intelligence services.”

“I just bet he does.”

“Yes. I believe it was felt that someone unconventional might be a better fit than any of the experienced agents that were available.”

“Were you his handler before?”

“I'm afraid I cannot comment.”

She chuckled. “Or you'd have to have me killed.”

“Oh, no.”

“No?”

“No, I'd kill you myself.”

She gave a cut-off exhalation of surprise and, Mycroft suspected, amusement. “That's—I almost want to say _sweet_ of you, but really maybe not.”

Mycroft only smiled back at her discomfiture before continuing. “Has Doctor Oppenheimer ever mentioned Edwin Blythe to you? Or asked you anything about him since Moran was arrested?”

That question gave her pause and Mycroft expected a snarky comment about his continuing single status perhaps being a result of his turning social occasions into interrogations. But to his surprise she refrained; perhaps she had decided that he was expecting it and denied it to him on principal.

“His name was never mentioned by either of them. Not that I remember, anyway. Certainly not since MI5 questioned me last year. Did you know about that?”

“I followed the Moran case at a distance; I'd supposed they would question you but I did not, I have to admit, pay much attention to the case after his arrest and the danger of attack was over.”

“You think she'll mess up your brother.”

“I have concerns about a number of aspects of his handling by MI5.”

She laughed out loud. “Oh, I bet you do.” When he didn't reply she continued. “Deborah's—strange. That's always been the word that comes to mind when I think of her. Not helpful, I know, and not very specific. I've never been able to put my finger on it. When you told me before about her being MI5, that just seemed to make so much sense. Because it was always obvious she was full of secrets. I think that's why she always seemed off to me. Untrustworthy. It certainly explains why she's always been stand-offish; she probably has to be with everyone.”

“An unfortunate consequence of the work we do.”

She didn't reply and Mycroft left her alone with her thoughts as she stared into the fire for a minute. So far she'd said nothing he hadn't already known or expected. He wasn't sure he believed that she had guessed he would ask her about Deborah and had therefore prepared a set of benign answers. It was just as likely that she had decided to be candid with him in this matter, and that she really had nothing of interest to say on the subject of Deborah Oppenheimer.

“Are they going to let him solve it?” Her question was so quiet that Mycroft barely heard it over the crackle of the fire. When he didn't answer right away, she turned her attention back to the fire for a minute or so. Then she finished her drink, checked her watch, gave a faintly comic grimace at the hour, and stood. “I'm off, then. When are you usually up?”

“Six o'clock. I leave at seven.”

“My god.”

He smiled up at her. “I won't expect you to keep my hours; I'll have Mrs White wake you at seven. I'll send Peterson back and he can take you to Kew.”

“Thank you.”

“It's the least I can do. Thank you for this, Christina. I do appreciate your assistance.”

She smiled at him and made as if to leave. As she reached the door, she turned back to him. “Well, you know me and my _dangerous curiosity_.” When she saw his startled expression she chuckled and departed for the guest room, leaving Mycroft to spend fifteen minutes wondering why she'd chosen that particular reference to their past, before dragging himself off to his own bed.

~ + ~

**Friday, January 30**

As Mycroft walked out of his morning meeting with Lady Smallwood his phone rang; a brief spike of concern arose in his mind when he saw it was Janet Fraser.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. I thought you’d want to know your brother just got on a train for Oxford.”

Mycroft stopped in the middle of the corridor, forcing the stream of Whitehall workers to part and flow around him. _Why would Sherlock be leaving almost five hours early?_ “Has he had any visitors?”

“Not since Wednesday evening.”

“Thank you.” He rang off and called Andrea. “Please find out who my brother has been in contact with since yesterday afternoon. In particular, check out his Oxford connections.”

There was no hesitation when she replied, “Yes, sir.” Nor was there any sense of surprise, but Mycroft didn’t think that consequential. Andrea was difficult to wrong-foot at the best of times. 

By the time Mycroft reached his car, Andrea had his answer.

“Doctor Oppenheimer called your brother at 9:37 this morning; they spoke for 57 seconds. And I checked her phone records as well, and her other calls since last evening were one incoming from an untraceable number at 6:14 this morning; that call lasted two minutes, three seconds. She also had one other outgoing call, at 9:41 this morning, to Christina Martin at the National Archives; that call lasted seven minutes, fourteen seconds. GPS indicates she was on the road back from London when she made those two calls.”

“Thank you.” He rang off, then cradled his phone in both hands while staring at the back of his driver's head as they idled in traffic. The untraceable call most likely was from Thames House. She’d been called in before dawn, and been given information that resulted in calls to Sherlock and Christina. Mycroft felt a sharp whip-crack of anger that whatever it was that had elicited this sudden jump to action, Lady Smallwood had obviously felt it wasn’t worth telling him in the meeting that had just concluded. Or was she in the dark as well, he wondered. Or was he going to have to add her to the list of people he had to watch for attempts to stab him in the back?

The drive to Mycroft’s office was not a long one, but by the time they’d arrived he had pushed past his initial anger and worry, and had moved on to contemplating the strange turn of events. He had not yet decided if he thought Deborah Oppenheimer’s call to Christina the morning after the two of them had discussed the woman was initiated by Oppenheimer’s contacts within MI5 or not, though it was a tremendous coincidence if it wasn’t. Andrea had made no mention of a call _from_ Christina to the Oppenheimer woman, so Mycroft reserved judgement on what might be the reason for it. 

Mycroft had never given much weight to the possibility that Christina might have been involved in her ex-husband's activities. It wasn’t impossible—in Mycroft’s opinion, anything that could be imagined was within the bounds of human folly—but he’d long ago dismissed the likelihood as negligible. But if she wasn’t involved in some way, why would Oppenheimer have contacted her in that critical period that morning? Something had happened overnight that touched on Sherlock’s investigation, something secret, evidenced by the fact there had been no mention of any unusual events in the press that morning.

Mycroft fumed at the missing key piece of information (or two, or ten), but it was of no use stumbling around in his head trying to concoct a plausible reason for any of it until he had more data. When he was settled behind his desk, Andrea appeared in the doorway, staring down at her phone as she typed away furiously.

“What is the status on acquiring Deborah Oppenheimer’s MI5 file?” He wasn’t in the mood for dancing around the issue anymore. She'd had plenty of time, and now more than ever he needed to know what was afoot with her and MI5.

Andrea glanced up, likely startled as much by his tone as by his diving into the matter without preliminaries. Still, she recovered quickly. “I’ve spent most of the morning trying to follow up on that. I haven’t been able to get anyone at Thames House to even answer a text, much less a call. Something’s going on, and I can’t find out what.”

Mycroft couldn’t help a slight smile at her obvious frustration as she jammed away at her phone, a tight scowl on her face. She hated being denied her due almost as much as he did. But if she were telling the truth, it provided greater weight to the idea that something significant had happened, most likely relating to the “Moriarty” issue. If so, he could imagine the scrambling going on at MI5 was keeping non-essential communications to a minimum. It was certainly not a time for delicate negotiations. On the other hand, Andrea could just be using the incident as cover. Mycroft knew he needed to get to the bottom of that situation, but the chances of coming across a fool-proof method of obtaining incontrovertible evidence, without her knowing he was attempting to do so, were virtually nil in his current situation.

As Andrea continued to type away, she asked without looking up. “How was the opera?”

“Loud.”

She chuckled, and he waited to see if there would be a follow-up question about Christina. She glanced briefly over the top of her phone again. “You haven’t been for a while.”

“No.” He leant back in his chair, focusing all his attention on her.

When he didn’t continue, she dropped her phone a little and looked over again; Mycroft wondered if he could trust her with his next request. For discretion’s sake, he decided to keep it to himself for the moment. She must have sensed his conflict and decision, and she left, muttering something he thought might have been to do with the ingratitude of certain clerical staff at MI5.

Mycroft allowed himself to be almost hypnotised by the runnels of rain on the window as his mind adventured on its own, thinking about Christina, Deborah Oppenheimer, and Sherlock. How were the three phone calls connected? Was Oppenheimer’s call to Christina even related to the other two? Which one? Both? Neither? Sherlock’s early trip to Oxford provided adequate evidence of what Oppenheimer’s call to him had been about, and its connection to the call from MI5 to Oppenheimer. But why contact Christina? Did Mycroft need to re-evaluate her relevance to the rest of the web of problems surrounding him? Had she really been involved in her husband’s treasons?

All he had were questions, none of which he was going to get an answer to without more data. He could always call Sherlock and provoke him into a response that Mycroft could parse for useful information. Or reach out Christina and ask why an old friend just happened to contact her after being called in to Thames House on something related to the broadcast hacking, and coincidentally the morning after the two of them had had a conversation about said friend. But he hesitated; now that Christina had stopped blocking his efforts, he did not want to arouse her suspicions.

The more Mycroft thought about it, the more his niggling, quixotic instincts tempted him to “kidnap” Deborah Oppenheimer (to use John Watson’s melodramatic term). He allowed himself to indulge in the fantasy of a tidy resolution to the whole thing, but he knew the woman wouldn’t talk to him. If nothing else, Blythe would have told her she didn’t need to.

Exhaustion and frustration were tempting him with the attractions of a simple answer, but he also knew that false positives and confirmation bias were the death of effective data analysis. So as an exercise in retaining focus, he forced himself to deduce three feasible, realistic alternative scenarios that resolved all the seeming connections between those three telephone calls. They were easy to conjure, in some cases easier than his original speculation, but he couldn’t consider any of them conclusive. For that he needed at least one piece of data, and of all the people involved in the scenario, there was only one he could reasonably call on. But the need to be judicious with her goodwill stayed his hand.

So instead he called Lestrade and asked if the man knew of any unusual events having taken place the night just past.

“Nope. There something you have in mind?”

“Yes and no.”

“Okay—” 

“The exact nature of the matter in question is known to both of us. The specifics, however—”

“Last night—”

“Let’s expand that to the last twenty-four hours.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line as Mycroft heard muffled voiced in the background; he hoped it wasn’t Lestrade being so indiscreet as to ask his colleagues if they knew of anything.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Someone came in to ask a question.”

“You leave your office door open for anyone to walk in when we’re talking?”

“It’s more suspicious if it’s closed.”

“Ah, I see.”

“This involves our friends down the road here?”

“I really couldn’t say—” 

 

“Okay, then. I’ll poke around, see what I can find.” 

Mycroft couldn't tell if his message had been received. “It will likely be a small thing. Nothing showy.”

“Something out of character, then.”

“Not necessarily. Any assistance you can provide—”

“Yeah, I know, I’ll call as soon as I have anything.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem, as always.”

Mycroft wasn’t surprised by the result of the call. If anything notable had come within Lestrade’s hearing that morning, he would have communicated it to Mycroft already.

As he half-watched his news feed scroll across his computer screen, he gave in to the temptation to spend even more time he couldn’t exactly afford on the matter.

The aspect of it that bothered him the most was the implication of Christina’s possible involvement. Was the “event” anything to do with Moran? But if that were the case, why involve Sherlock? Had Moran managed to escape MI5 custody? Mycroft let full rein to a hearty snicker at the consequences to Blythe if that were the case. Perhaps Sherlock had been let off the leash in order to chase Moran down, like a singularly well-educated bloodhound. But other than the existence of the phone call to Christina, there was no indication that the “incident” might have anything to do with Moran.

Regardless, he didn't like the idea of Sherlock and Christina being involved in the same scheme. For one thing, if Deborah Oppenheimer brought them together, someone might let slip that he and Christina knew each other and Sherlock would pursue that until he knew everything. And if Sherlock found out about his “relationship” with her, he would instantly know it was fake and probably blurt that information out in Oppenheimer's presence, rendering Mycroft's efforts all for naught.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead in what he knew was a fruitless effort to push away the headache that was starting. Who else was going to be involved before the end of this? Harry? His mother? Martha Hudson? He sighed again and turned to the pile of reports waiting for him on the side of his desk.

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Jan 29, 2015 the Royal Opera performed _Andrea Chénier_ ; see here for info: http://www.roh.org.uk/events/lg3h7]. Regardless of Mycroft's opinions on the opera, the reviews of the production were universally positive.
> 
> Wondering what Sherlock and the others were up to this week? Find out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/12031187).


	5. Real tells, or attempts at purposeful misdirection?

**Saturday, January 31**

Mycroft simply could not believe what he was seeing in front of him. He was tempted to blink, in case he were hallucinating what was on the screen. 

_Thurs. ca. 3 am, Tott. Crt. Rd. Anything unusual?  
SH_

_And by unusual, I mean unsuspected appearances by dead men.  
SH_

Mycroft stared at the words that Sherlock had texted to his drugs monitor, Wiggins, the previous evening. He glanced at the time of the texts and swore quietly under his breath. Sherlock had sent them ten minutes after Janet Fraser had sent Mycroft her report for the day, so the texts hadn't been included in a report until this morning. He let the full implications of Sherlock's words play out in his mind as he very carefully did not lose the outward appearance of composure.

There had been another “Moriarty” incident on Thursday morning. In the Tottenham Court Road. Less than two miles from Baker Street. And _no one_ had thought to inform Mycroft of this fact. He had had to deduce this fact from his brother's texts, included in Mrs Fraser's routine, twice-daily surveillance reports.

Mycroft clenched and unclenched his left hand seven times. It did not help. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, five times. This didn't help, either. Despite the increased risk to his blood pressure, he read on. 

Upon returning to Baker Street, Sherlock had attempted to contact Lestrade. Twenty-nine times in two hours. And Lestrade had not bothered acknowledging a single text. For a reason entirely unbeknownst to him, Mycroft succumbed to paroxysms of laughter. His subconscious had conjured an unexpected method for coping with the extraordinary fear and frustration. Mycroft hated it and forced himself to stop. What in all that was holy was going on?

His meeting with Lady Smallwood on Friday morning took on an entirely new character. There had been not a hint, not a whisper that anything of interest had been going on. Nothing about the broadcast hacking or “Moriarty” or anything of any consequence _at all_. No allusion that anything related had been going on; the woman had sat in her office blathering on about consular security protocols while god only knew what Blythe and MI5 had been doing to cover up whatever had happened Thursday morning. Mycroft wanted to scream until his library windows shattered.

And Lestrade. What the _hell_ was Lestrade playing at, ignoring Sherlock in that manner? Mycroft grabbed his phone and called him. There was no answer. Without leaving a message, Mycroft immediately called again. As the fourth call went to voicemail, he wondered if something had happened to the man. The chance of that occurring without Mycroft finding out were small, but not zero. However, in case the man was so lust-befuddled he imagined he could shake Mycroft off, he decided to resort to an escalation of proceedings.

_Would you prefer I make an appearance at your friend's home?  
Mycroft Holmes_

Twenty-two seconds later, his phone rang.

“I have no interest in how you fill your spare hours, Lestrade,” Mycroft began as soon as the man picked up the call. “But I am curious as to your reasons why you are ignoring Sherlock, considering your assurances on that matter.”

“Um—”

“I believe I've changed my mind. Don't bother. I can't imagine there's anything you can say to excuse your behaviour. Regardless of how long it's been since you've last had the opportunity to engage in intercourse—”

“Now hold on a minute—”

“—there really is no adequate excuse. You are to go to Baker Street. _Now_. What Sherlock needs to discuss with you takes precedence over everything.”

“If it's so important, you go see him, then.”

“As I have explained—”

“I've got plans.”

“No, you do not.” Mycroft rang off before he said something he regretted.

Within five minutes of ending his conversation with Lestrade, Mycroft had regained some of his usual calm, though there was still a seething, growling monster lurking in the back of his mind. He returned to Mrs Fraser's surveillance report. Sherlock had neither made nor received any other calls since returning to Baker Street, and as of 6.00 that morning had not left the flat. Mycroft was surprised to see that Sherlock had not removed the surveillance cameras that had been re-installed while he was in Oxford. According to Janet Fraser, he had spent the evening flopped on his sofa, staring at the ceiling, before falling asleep just before 1.30 am. Mycroft resisted a twinge of curiosity; watching a live feed of Sherlock sleeping wasn't edifying at the best of times, and Mycroft had work of his own.

Four hours later, Mycroft still had not heard back from Lestrade, nor had Sherlock attempted to contact him, which he suspected Sherlock would have if Lestrade had visited. He considered calling Janet Fraser to confirm, but reasoned that this might be a little overbearing, even for him. In the end, it was mid-afternoon before Lestrade made an appearance at Mycroft's Whitehall office.

It was obvious that the man was still smarting from the verbal spanking he'd received that morning. Mycroft stared across his desk at him, ensuring he radiated enough suppressed anger that Lestrade couldn't miss Mycroft's irritation for making him wait all day. After a few seconds of defiantly trying to stare Mycroft down, Lestrade slumped into a nearby chair.

“It's another 'Moriarty' video.” Mycroft didn't express it as a question; based on Sherlock's texts to Wiggins, it was obvious. But he needed Lestrade's confirmation.

The man rubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah. Supposedly.”

“Did you see it?”

“Nope. Sherlock didn't have it. Supposedly it's CCTV footage from Tottenham Court Road Thursday morning.”

“What was Sherlock's response to seeing it?”

“Well it's not like I can really answer that, can I? Seeing as I wasn't there when he saw it.”

Mycroft didn't reply other than to give him a flat stare; the last thing he wanted to deal with was this childish pique. “How did he seem today?”

“Fine. He asked if you knew about it already.”

That wasn't exactly surprising, Mycroft thought. But he had no intention of discussing that aspect of things with Lestrade. “Did he tell you who showed it to him.”

“Nope.”

“Did you ask?”

“Nope. I figured you knew that already if you already knew what was going on.”

It sounded like a weak excuse, but Mycroft let it pass. “You heard no rumours about this on Thursday or Friday?”

“Nope. It probably went straight to MI5 Thursday morning.”

“And Sherlock found out about it Friday,” Mycroft mused. He wondered if Sherlock had ever told Lestrade about his trips to Oxford, their real purpose, and who he met there. But if he hadn't, Mycroft didn't want to trigger the man's curiosity about things he was best left ignorant of.

“He thinks it's fake.”

Mycroft wondered if Sherlock believed the twin was dead, or if he'd lied to Lestrade to cover up his suspicions. “Well, unless James Moriarty has found a way to rise from the dead, it does seem the logical conclusion.”

“Sherlock asked for the other footage from the area that night.”

“Why?” Then Mycroft realised why. “He wants to determine the nature of the fakery. Of course.”

“That's what he said.”

“Pursuing that footage would draw attention we cannot afford.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“What will you tell Sherlock?”

“I already told him I probably won't be able to get my hands on it, so he's been prepared for disappointment, though I said I'd try.”

“Good.”

“Do you want me to?”

“God, no, of course not.”

They were both silent for a few seconds. Mycroft watched Lestrade avoid his eyes and wondered if it was residual anger or shame that was the cause.

“We're done?”

 _Ah, so it was anger, then._ Mycroft supposed the man wanted to get back to wasting his day with his new friend. What a disappointment the man was turning into, he thought as he nodded.

“Okay, then.” Without a glance back, Lestrade trundled out the door. 

Mycroft sat back in his chair and toyed with the handle of his teacup. Whoever was responsible for the first video had reached out again, though in this case it wasn't entirely evident who had been the intended recipient. Sherlock probably thought it was meant for his eyes only, but that was one of a number of possibilities. Though that was almost irrelevant; they needed to focus still on determining who might be responsible.

At the very least, Mycroft had another plausible reason for Deborah Oppenheimer contacting Christina on Friday morning. She might have decided to take advantage of Christina's forensics expertise, and asked her to take a look at the file to determine how exactly it had been faked. Mycroft was very unhappy with the idea of Christina becoming involved in anything to do with the “Moriarty” issue; and it was possible that Oppenheimer did have another motive. And there was still the other question hovering: was Oppenheimer acting on her own motives, or was this just another twist in Blythe's plan? And more importantly, who had provided the fakers with the old CCTV footage of James Moriarty? 

~ + ~

**Sunday, February 1**

When Mycroft saw the name flash up on his mobile, he couldn’t suppress a groan. He’d been dodging the woman for weeks, but since Thursday he’d suspected that she was about to become more persistent. It seemed his suspicion that the woman in the horrid paisley dress he’d seen at Covent Garden was his mother’s oldest friend had been correct.

“Yes, Mummy.”

“ _Finally_. I’d begun to think you’d been kidnapped, as well.”

“Who has been kidnapped?” Still scrolling through his surveillance report on Sherlock, Mycroft settled in for the usual long litany of complaint.

“Sherlock, of course. _He_ hasn’t replied to any of my messages, either.”

Mycroft spared his mother his thoughts on the distinct lack of connection between Sherlock being kidnapped and Sherlock being Sherlock. “Does he ever?”

That set the woman back for a moment, but as always she soon leapt to her favourite’s defence. “He’s been ill. And I imagine he’s been busy helping John and Mary prepare for the baby.” 

For a moment, Mycroft indulged in the fantasy of telling his mother exactly how Sherlock had been responding to the imminent threat of losing his best friend to impending adulthood. But he decided to forgo that pleasure, sure to be tainted by his mother’s usual accusations of pettiness and jealousy.

“What were you calling about before, Mummy? Andrea explained about—”

“I was originally calling to find out what you were going to do about that nonsense with the television a few weeks ago, but I see someone has sorted that out.”

 _Oh, Lord._ “Yes. And?”

“Do I need to have a reason to say hello to my son, Mikey?”

 _Ordinarily it’s because you want me to waste my precious time on some tedious little task entirely for your benefit,_ Mycroft wanted to reply.

He heard his mother take a deep breath, like an aeroplane engine spinning up to prepare for take-off. “Well—”

 _Here we go_.

“—I had lunch with Elaine Rutherford on Friday—”

 _Bugger_.

“—and she claims she saw you at Covent Garden Thursday evening. With a woman. The wife of some peer or other, I can’t remember the name.”

While cursing Mrs Rutherford’s lifelong obsession with the society pages, Mycroft bit the bullet. “Her name is Christina Martin, and she is the _ex_ -wife of Lord Moran.”

“Oh, Mikey, I’m so glad to—”

“She’s just an old friend, Mummy. We were at Oxford together.”

“That was almost twenty-five years ago. How have I never heard her name before?”

“Because for twenty-one years she was married to Sebastian Moran.” Mycroft instantly regretted the snap in his tone. Defensiveness was never an effective response to his mother; it just resulted in an average 7.3 extra minutes of torture per conversation. Then Mycroft realised exactly how his mother would interpret his last statement and closed his eyes to prepare for the onslaught to come.

“Oh. Of course. I’ve always known that must be the reason— It’s obvious there must have been _someone_. And now you’re back together—”

Mycroft knew protests would be fruitless, but he had to at least try. “Mummy, it was nothing like—”

“Did she hurt you terribly? She must have for you—”

“—that. There was no—”

“Or did you hurt her, Mikey? You can be very thoughtless, you know.” As usual, his mother's rare niggle of sympathy for him had the lifespan of a snowflake in hell.

“Mummy, I appreciate your concern for both my and Christina's well-being, but there was no grand romance. We were friends, that's all. She was a friend of Harry Abernathy's first.”

“Oh.” 

To Mycroft's relief, this seemed to have stopped the woman in her tracks, then distracted her towards a less fraught subject.

“How are Harry and Suzanne?”

“Very well, last I saw them.”

“And how did Harry know this friend of yours? Elaine said she's American.”

“Canadian.” Mycroft wondered how Elaine Rutherford had managed to get close enough to Christina to hear her accent, without him noticing her hovering nearby.

“There's a difference?”

Mycroft chuckled. “She wouldn't appreciate the assumptions behind that line of inquiry, Mummy.”

His mother tsk-ed at him. “Canadians are always so touchy. There was one in my Master's program.”

“Christina has spent half her life in England; I imagine her sensitivities on the matter have been somewhat dulled. But would you like to be mistaken for a Scot?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. And stop trying to change the subject. Why were you on a date with this woman if you're just 'old friends'?”

“It was not a date.” _For the tenth time._

“Elaine said the two of you looked very cosy. And that you were with someone named Lady Smallwood, whoever that might be.”

“Perhaps if Elaine had spent less time with the society pages and more time with her husband, he wouldn't have left her for his podiatrist.”

“Don't be peevish, dear.”

Mycroft sighed again, and this time didn't bother hiding it. “Lady Smallwood is a colleague, and Christina has known her for years. We were seated near her, so of course we had to speak with her.” While his mother caught her breath to prepare for her next assault on Mycroft's private life, he dove in to the momentary cessation in hostilities. “I hope you haven't spent the last two days fantasizing church weddings and grandchildren.”

“Of course not.”

Mycroft groaned internally as her tone clearly said that that was exactly what she had been doing. His heart sank at the prospect of having to have _that_ conversation with her again. Would this be the sixth or seventh time? He didn't think he had either the energy or the stomach for the resumption of that particular battle at the moment, but he knew if he let the matter slide today he'd be fighting a rear-guard action on the matter for months. So he plunged in just as a throbbing set up in the back of his brain.

“Mummy—” 

“Mycroft, I know you've said—”

“—this changes nothing—”

“—that you're, well—” 

“—about my life.” Mycroft drew a deep breath and forced down the anger threatening to send the conversation off the rails. Her consistent refusal to accept the reality of who he was had been an irritation for twenty-five years and he was heartily sick of it. While he had a momentary tickle of regret for having backed her into a corner, her decades-long refusal to believe the truth of his life made him inexpressibly weary.

When she recovered, she seemed slightly chastened, but he didn't expect it to last. “Mikey, I just want you to have what Father and I have had all these years.”

And there it was, again. The blind refusal to see what had been in front of her, all along. “I know.”

“I—” She paused, and when she resumed, the resignation in her voice was startling. “I don't know what to say.”

“There's nothing to be said.”

The line was silent for almost a minute, but Mycroft knew he had to end it or she'd just be pestering him again in a few days.

“Have you seen your brother?”

 _If only_. “Not for a few weeks.”

“Are you keeping an eye on him?”

He let go a mordant chuckle. “Yes, of course. He's seeing a bit of John and Mary, and working on some cases for the Met. He's as well as he ever is.” _Liar, liar, pants on fire, Mikey_ , he thought.

“Well, as long as he's keeping busy.”

“Yes.”

There was another pause and Mycroft thought he heard his father's voice in the background.

“I have to go, dear. Your father just reminded me we're expected at the Johnsons' for dinner this evening and she does expect people to make an effort.”

“Of course. Give my regards to the Johnsons.”

“I will.”

His mother signed off, his father shouting greetings in the background as Mycroft rang off, then dropped his head in his hands for a few seconds. But his comments on the Bank of England's report on Scottish devolution weren't going to write themselves, so he pulled himself up like a marionette and girded himself for the rest of the day.

~ + ~

**Tuesday, February 3**

It was unusual for Janet Fraser to telephone him, so Mycroft knew that something had happened with Sherlock that she thought shouldn't wait for her twice-daily reports.

“He met Deborah Oppenheimer at Kew Station half an hour ago and they went on to the National Archives together. They met Christina Martin there, and according to Thomson, it appeared that she was expecting them.”

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mrs Fraser.”

“Standard procedure when two targets meet unexpectedly.”

“Yes, of course.”

While this information confirmed Mycroft's suspicions on one question (why Deborah Oppenheimer had called Christina the previous Friday morning), it raised an even more intriguing one: why did she feel the need to take Sherlock with her?

If the meeting had been set up in order for Christina to conduct a forensic assessment of the CCTV footage, Sherlock didn't need to be there. And why would Deborah Oppenheimer need Christina's expertise when she had access to MI5's forensic resources and had no operational reason to go to the Archives? It was obvious that the real purpose of the meeting was for Christina and Sherlock to meet. It couldn't be related to Sherlock's assignment; Christina had no connection to the broadcast hacking or its investigation. And she certainly had no connection to Moriarty or anyone that Mycroft knew had been associated with Moriarty. Mycroft couldn't imagine she would be of any help to Sherlock in regards to the Met cold cases, either. 

Mycroft wondered: was it Blythe or Oppenheimer's idea for Sherlock to meet Christina? And then an idea popped into his head: someone wanted Sherlock to make a connection between Moriarty's organisation and Sebastian Moran. 

Once that realisation bedded down in Mycroft's mind, he understood it explained a number of elements that had never fit before. It seemed to have been purposely buried in the flotsam and jetsam that had been thrown at him for the last two months. Lady Smallwood's words to Mycroft the evening she'd given him his assignment regarding Christina came back to his mind. _Yes, there had been a consensus developing that we should allow her to go home if she wished once the divorce was final. But opinion changed this week, as you can imagine._

At the time, Mycroft's dawning horror as he'd begun to understand what the nature of the assignment was had distracted him from the implications of that statement. It was obvious now that MI5 thought there was a connection and for no reason that Mycroft could discern, thought Christina could provide them with evidence of it. The idea was ludicrous, though. 

Mycroft acknowledged that his reaction was driven by his preconceptions of Christina's character, and his recollections of the young woman he had known half their lives ago. He supposed it was _theoretically_ possible that she might know something, albeit without being aware. But everything Mycroft knew about her and about the Moran case indicated that she hadn't been actively involved in her ex-husband's treachery.

At the time of the original Moran investigation there had been no evidence of any connection between the Parliament bombing plot and any possible surviving dregs of Moriarty's organisation. Moriarty had been dead for two years at the time, and Sherlock had been most insistent that he'd taken all of Moriarty's organisation down, so they hadn't been looking for a connection. On the other hand, the bombing plot had been ludicrous, flamboyant and entirely different from Moran's usual mode of operations. This spoke of another mind behind the scenes, constructing the plan. 

The number of variables in his analysis increased every time he looked at it, Mycroft saw. The first to be addressed was: who in MI5 was behind the decision to bring Christina to Sherlock's attention?

At first glance, Blythe seemed the obvious prime suspect. But why would he take this approach? Had he hoped that Sherlock would make the connection by some sort of osmosis? As if dropping the reference to Moran into the forefront of Sherlock's consciousness, to sit uncomfortably side-by-side with “Moriarty” would cause the idea of a possible connection to spontaneously appear in Sherlock's mind? 

Mycroft knew that this train of thought had to be incorrect, though, because it was based on the assumption that Blythe _wanted_ Sherlock to solve the broadcast hacking case. However, it had been obvious almost from the beginning that Blythe was doing everything in his power to ensure Sherlock failed.

Another possible motive could be Blythe using Sherlock to do his work for him on the Moran case, regardless of any possible connection to Moriarty. The “in limbo” status of the Moran case, the fact that the man had been a government minister, and the upcoming election made a large number of people very nervous about possible fall-out from the Parliament bombing plot. Mycroft imagined that Blythe was under tremendous pressure to deal with the situation one way or another. But Mycroft didn't think Blythe would go so far as to entrust his most important investigation—one that did need to be resolved—to someone he did not trust and who was the closest ally of a man Blythe had long thought of as an enemy.

With Blythe's candidacy so contentious, the next obvious suspect was Deborah Oppenheimer. Mycroft found the idea unsettling. If Mycroft's assumptions about Blythe's motives regarding Sherlock were correct, then the woman was acting against Blythe. 

Under those circumstances, bringing Sherlock and Christina together was risky. What benefit would accrue to her as recompense for such a risk? What could possibly be her motivation for attempting to make a move against Blythe?

While Mycroft had little concern for Oppenheimer's safety, he couldn't help but be worried about Sherlock's. Mycroft did not want him caught in the crossfire between Blythe and Oppenheimer. At his enforced distance, there was little Mycroft could do other than hope Sherlock saw the situation clearly and had prepared an appropriate response.

Regardless of who was ultimately responsible for the meeting between Sherlock and Christina, it was clear that Mycroft's previous belief that she was just a time-consuming annoyance thrown into his path required re-assessment. 

He felt as if he were chasing ghosts. He had more supposition than data. He felt marginalised and he _hated_ it. But if Christina actually knew something of significance, something Blythe needed, then Mycroft was certainly not going to stand aside and let Blythe get to it, while Deborah Oppenheimer used Sherlock as a human shield in her battles with MI5. 

It had been many years since Mycroft had had to flex his administrative muscles. But in a way, he was looking forward to reminding Blythe just how and why Mycroft had attained the position he had.

As his mind began to wrap up the final pieces of the puzzle, he wondered if this was the real reason Lady Smallwood had sent him after Christina. After a decade of scrupulous even-handedness had she finally declared for Mycroft? His instincts told him no, but the prospect was tantalising all the same. 

~ + ~

**Wednesday, February 4**

_Well, it's about bloody well time_ , Mycroft thought as he perused the overnight surveillance reports. Mary Watson had finally decided to go into labour the previous afternoon. For a moment, Mycroft contemplated the notion of flexing his newly-regained computer hacking skills and cracking into the NHS systems to see if the child had been born yet, but he dismissed the momentary flight of fancy as a silly waste of his time. Though he couldn't help but wonder what the future might hold for Baby Watson, born to a pathological liar in hiding and a man just as likely to be off with his mad best friend as be around to do his duty.

The birth, of course, brought to the forefront of his mind his long-running concerns about what would be Sherlock's reaction, and the dread of his long-standing “coping” mechanism continuing on from the marriage and abandonment, Magnussen, and the shooting. Mycroft had made a habit of denying despair a place in his life, but he couldn't help but speculate that _this_ blow might just be the one that broke Sherlock. For there were only two likely outcomes: John Watson would fall in love with his child and the life he'd always claimed to desire, and deny Sherlock the time and attention he needs; or John would abandon his family and in so doing destroy the image of him that Sherlock clings to.

As always in these situations, Mycroft is at a loss. For twenty years he had tried and failed to guide his brother through the shoals of human sentiment, and despite the continual failures hoping that something, somehow, would change. That Sherlock would learn moderation in his emotions. It had taken Mycroft more than fifteen years to recognise that Sherlock's needs were vastly different from his own, that he needed some sort of emotional connection to _someone_ , and that he did not possess the resilience to traverse life alone. This need for attachment was incomprehensible to Mycroft, but he knew that he couldn't provide his brother with what he needed in this regard—hadn't been able to since Sherlock was a child.

Watching Sherlock's relationship with John Watson develop and strengthen over the years had been akin to watching his little brother walk a tightrope strung between the peaks of two skyscrapers. Every gust of conflict, every change in circumstances threatened to push Sherlock off the rope, and watching from a distance was the greatest challenge Mycroft had ever addressed. Seeing his brother teeter, then (sometimes) regain his balance sent Mycroft's heart (such as it was) into his throat. 

Over those three years that he had watched Sherlock change and begin to mature a little (or so he'd thought), Mycroft had granted himself leave to hope that this risk he had allowed them all to take would reap significant rewards for his brother. Unfortunately, the attachment soon had shown its darker side, as he had feared at the beginning it might. Sherlock had allied himself to a man with little understanding of what he had taken on that night five years ago. Mycroft couldn't help but be afraid that when John Watson disappointed Sherlock, as he was bound to do, Sherlock's response would be the same as it had been to every other disappointment he had suffered. Except this time it would be worse, the fall from a greater height than ever before, now that Sherlock had had a taste of the thing he had desired and denied himself for so long.

~ + ~

When Mycroft approached Pollay, he was not surprised at the other man's caution. After all, he and Pollay's principal benefactor famously had been at odds for close to a decade. And while Pollay was a bit of a lackwit, even he knew Mycroft would not make overtures to him without there being a scheme in play. For what possible other reason could Mycroft have for inviting him to lunch? However, Mycroft was gratified that the man accepted, possibly solely out of curiosity, but most likely on Blythe's direct order.

There was no question of them meeting anywhere they might encounter any Whitehall colleagues, so in a fit of inspiration Mycroft proposed the restaurant near Butler's Wharf where he had had his first conversation with Christina.

“Interesting choice,” Pollay said as they were seated in the small private dining room at the back of the restaurant.

“Is it likely anyone we know would be in this neighbourhood at this time of the day?”

Pollay smiled as he opened his menu. “No, I suppose not.”

They held off the business part of the conversation until they were nursing their coffees. Mycroft thought it would serve his interests best if he let Pollay feel as though he were in control of the conversation, so he sat back and let the other man have the floor. He knew Pollay's curiosity would get the better of him eventually.

“You were at school with Harry Abernathy, weren't you?”

This was certainly not the opening Mycroft had expected. He loathed middle-aged men who romanticised their school days and insisted on foisting their reminiscences on others.

“Yes. He was three years ahead of me.”

“The two of you stay in touch?”

“Off and on over the years.”

“Oh. I was hoping you would be willing to introduce me.”

Pollay appeared to be angling for an appointment to one of the Royal households, Mycroft realised with an internal groan of dismay. He wondered why idiots always thought there was prestige in such positions. Long hours, low pay and no thanks were the only reward he had ever seen for such places. Then Mycroft remembered that Pollay's eldest son was in the Marines. But there was no possibility one of the households would take on a young man from such an undistinguished family.

“I'm afraid that would depend on why you would want it.”

The man flushed pink and stared at his hands. 

_Boring, boring, boring. Get on with it, man,_ intoned in Mycroft's head, while he kept his face a mask.

“Well, it's to do with my wife.”

 _Really? This might be passing amusing._ Mycroft nodded.

“Until recently she was on the Board of a charity—can't remember which one, sorry, some disease or other—with his wife. And, well, there was some sort of to-do about something. Some fundraising event, I think. You know how women—Um, maybe not—” Pollay's blushes turned to scarlet and he started to fidget, while Mycroft went perfectly stone-still. At the same time, he was starting to enjoy himself, a little, and refused to chastise himself for his schadenfreude over the discomfort of someone who wasn't technically his enemy, but he knew wouldn't pour a glass of water on him if he were on fire.

“Anyway,” Pollay continued. “Felicity would like me to speak to Harry, break the ice, so to say.”

Such a little thing. And a reasonably well thought-out lie, from what Mycroft could see. He almost felt like granting the man a reward solely for making a bit of an effort, which was more than Mycroft had expected from him. But it did put Mycroft in a bit of an awkward position; asking for anything in return would seem a bit like pandering. Perhaps a show of forthrightness (of a kind) wouldn't go amiss, he thought.

Mycroft chuckled in a faintly paternal manner. “For a moment there I thought you might be trying to jump ship.”

Pollay was obviously aghast at the suggestion and Mycroft was surprised that he'd caught onto the implication so quickly. That, more than anything, told him that the conversation had been designed by Blythe, who would, of course, have known the impression that would be given by the subject matter being brought up in such a manner.

“No, certainly not! And I would never—not for anything. No, I would never presume, even if I were looking to make a move—which I most definitely am not—it would never be—” Pollay paused and took a sip of water while glancing at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye. “I would never put you in that sort of position, Holmes. Would be incredible cheek from anyone, much less someone like me. Totally inappropriate.”

Mycroft continued to give the man a flat stare, watching him blather himself to a standstill. It was time to move on to the plan, he decided.

“How is the broadcast hack investigation going?” Mycroft held up a hand to fend off Pollay's protest. “I ask only in general terms, not for details. One spanking on that matter is sufficient, let me assure you,” he added, shamming a bit.

Pollay gave him a conspiratorial grin that held a bit too much self-satisfaction for Mycroft's tastes. Blythe had obviously shared the story of the PM's outrageous attempt at a dressing-down, as Mycroft had suspected. 

“Well, there's not much I can say, anyway. I 'm supposed to be overseeing a part of it, but nothing much seems to be going on.”

 _And stellar oversight you're obviously providing there,_ Mycroft mused. “Well, that's GCHQ for you.”

“I suppose so.”

“And the PM's office?”

“Totally lost interest. Weeks ago, in fact.”

“But if the press decides to pick up the story again, they'll be back for answers.”

Pollay nodded, seeming lost in his own thoughts for a few seconds. Then he drew himself up and gave Mycroft a trace of a nervous smile. “Well, you could say that about anything, really.”

And Mycroft knew he had him. He had lightly tugged the man to the head of the path, pointed him in the right direction, and sent him off with a gentle nudge that he obviously hadn't even felt. Most likely he would think the conclusions he came to were entirely based on his own judgement and deductive abilities. Now, Mycroft just had to wait for the man to trundle along until he arrived at the intended realisation. Mycroft wondered if he should allow himself a little mental bet on just how long it would take Pollay to realise exactly what Blythe was setting him up for, and how long after that it would take him to swallow his pride and come to Mycroft for an escape plan. 

~ + ~

**Thursday, February 5**

“Have you spoken to Deborah Oppenheimer recently?”

Mycroft glanced up from his dinner, startled that Christina had brought up the subject. “I haven’t spoken to her at all.” 

“I met your brother the other day.”

He ensured his expression showed mild surprise, even though she'd already told him she knew he had her under surveillance. “How did that come about?”

“That's a bit of a strange tale.” Mycroft could tell that Christina thought there was something disreputable going on and he let her spin out the story in her own time, curious as to what her interpretation of events would be. “She called to say she had a favour to ask.” She gave him a knowing look. “Well, I got her to admit she had some file she wanted me to take a look at, and I backed straight out of it. She wasn't impressed, thought our connection meant I should be willing to walk blind into some trap or other. Anyway, I told her if she wanted my help she could go through the proper channels to request it.” 

Christina paused and stared out the window with a pensive expression for a few moments. Mycroft couldn't tell if she hesitated because she sensed the political undercurrents around those events. “She did it, too. Went through the systems people and my Director. All right and proper, all the correct forms filled out. Odd, yes?” Mycroft nodded. “For someone who supposedly isn't an agent. She's effectively outed herself as MI5, hasn't she?” He nodded again, surprised that she had made the connection straight off. “Well, she comes in with your brother and gives me a disk containing, I have to say, the most extraordinary thing I've seen in a long while.” She paused to give him the opportunity to comment or question her and when he didn't she smiled slightly and continued. “Deborah has access to the agency's forensics people, so she wasn't really coming to me for that reason, obviously. So when she said she wanted me to take a look at it, I knew something was up.”

When she paused again, Mycroft knew she wasn't waiting for him to confirm, but he nodded anyway. He was curious to see just how much she had deduced for herself. And the more he let her talk, the more she'd think he trusted her opinions, which would only help his plan in the long run. “Why would she be told to come to me? Because Blythe thinks we're seeing each other and he wants to use Deborah and me so that it seems we're acting as go-betweens between you and Sherlock. Then he can accuse you of breaking whatever agreement you have with Elizabeth. You can imagine what I thought of that.”

Mycroft didn't answer. The analysis was not what he'd expected; he had difficulty believing she'd gone so far wide of the mark. He hid his disappointment that she'd taken it in the direction of the personal rather than the operational. And then she surprised him again by veering off back to the right track.

“Deborah's obviously champing at the bit to get one over on Blythe.”

He paused before replying in order to let her know he was taking her assertion seriously. “What makes you think so?”

“Why else would she have brought Sherlock? I can't imagine Blythe wants the two of us meeting. He's probably annoyed enough at Elizabeth setting us up.”

“I have no evidence that would support an alternative interpretation of events.”

She stared at him for a moment and he could tell there was a sharp reply poised on the tip of her tongue, but she managed to corral it before it escaped. “Why would she expose herself like that? It's not like she's doing it for Sherlock's sake. Why would she want to provoke Blythe? It's a stupid thing to do in her position.”

“I think that's a fair assessment.” _If, in fact, she wasn't acting on Blythe's orders from the beginning._

Mycroft was surprised at Christina's lack of reaction to his response. She hadn't been seeking his praise, then, for her analysis. Then Mycroft remembered: the players in this game were real people to her, not pawns or resources or vectors of influence. It was now becoming apparent to him that to Christina, Deborah was a friend, the wife of a distant (ex-)relative. He needed to always have the fact in the forefront of his mind that to Christina people possessed some sort of intrinsic value, especially if they had any connection to her. She probably considered even Sherlock to have value in his own right, even though he was a a stranger. 

And from a certain perspective her analysis had been sound; Deborah Oppenheimer _had_ broken three cardinal rules of espionage: she'd exposed herself as an agent to outsiders, she'd allowed her activities to go on the record, and there was a good chance that she'd done so solely to serve a personal agenda. Regardless of her helping their cause, her actions were disturbing, and if even Christina were able to see the trail of destruction the Doctor was building, then others would be able to as well. Mycroft hated playing with amateurs (and despite her current role at MI5, Doctor Oppenheimer was an amateur); you never knew how they would respond in any situation and they never seemed to care about the consequences of their actions.

“Has she ever mentioned Sir Edwin to you before? About their working relationship.”

“I didn't even know before that they knew each other.” She paused and pulled a face. “I'm not sure I like the idea of your brother reporting to someone so irresponsible.”

“What was the file?”

“So you don’t know what she brought me.” Christina gave him a heavy look. Mycroft could tell she didn't believe him; her expression became slightly disdainful as she continued. “It’s not my place to say what it was. She claimed that she wanted my professional advice. So that's what I gave her.”

Mycroft knew that pushing her wouldn't be productive, so he turned the conversation in a new direction, with the hope of coming back to the video later. It was imperative he find out if she was willing to tell him more about it; it would be an important test of whether or not she trusted him. “How did Sherlock seem?”

“Bored. I don't think he said a word until I mentioned you.”

“He wasn't interested?”

“In what? The video? I assumed he'd seen it already.”

“No, you.”

“No.”

“He didn't ask any questions at all?”

“Only about how I know you.” His worry must have shown, because her tones turned conciliatory as she continued. “He seemed fine. He wasn't high and I'd hazard a guess he isn't using, at least not on a regular basis.” 

Mycroft opened his mouth to question how she might know how to judge that, then remembered that her younger brother had been an addict, as well. She knew the signs.

“You do know what Deborah brought to my door?”

“Besides Sherlock?”

“Mycroft—”

He paused, and wondered if he should admit that he already knew about the video. “And this mystery disk.” 

“Thought so.” She seemed more chagrined than angry that he'd been leading her a merry dance, which he thought boded well. Any movement towards her learning to control her volatile temper would be a benefit to both of them.

“Oppenheimer claimed she wanted to know if it was genuine.”

Christina nodded. “Pretty straightforward metadata analysis.” She made a tiny roll of her shoulder, like a miniature shrug. “I figured I might as well do it, seeing as they were there.”

“And your 'dangerous curiosity' got the better of you?”

She ignored the comment. “The results were inconclusive. If it’s genuine, though—” She trailed off and stared out the window again. Mycroft knew this meant she was experiencing some sort of internal conflict over where the conversation was going. Her tells were so obvious he sometimes wondered if they were real tells or attempts at purposeful misdirection. 

“What did you say to Sherlock?”

For a few seconds her only response was one of her strange contemplative noises that he suspected she wasn’t aware she made. “There were a number of interpretations I could have taken from the data.” She met his eye. “I gave him the one least likely to result in him being thrown onto a plane to Kosovo.”

“I suppose you expect my thanks.”

“No. I didn’t do it for your sake.”

“Oh.” He didn’t quite know what to make of that. While he wasn't unhappy with her choice, he didn't understand why she would be concerned about Sherlock’s welfare. Perhaps she just didn't like the idea of people being thrown onto planes bound for Kosovo, in general. And if that was the case, he planned on taking as much advantage of that sentiment as he could.

~ + ~

Later that evening, after Mycroft had settled in at home, he finally had the time to review Mrs Fraser’s surveillance report for Sherlock’s activities during the day. He was particularly curious if there had been any contact between his brother and the Watsons, now that the immediate excitement of the birth would be over.

And there it was, in the middle of the report: a text conversation between Sherlock and Mary Watson early that afternoon.

When Mycroft reached the end of the exchange he sat back in his chair with a sigh. He wanted Sherlock to have friends, he truly did. He had accepted the fact that Sherlock needed this in his life, that the work wasn’t enough. But _why_ did he insist on choosing companions who would do him harm, even if they didn't mean to? Mycroft was no psychologist, and possessed the self-awareness to know that he had little understanding of the human heart, but he couldn’t help but speculate that Sherlock’s choices were driven by whatever it was that drove him to drugs. Not boredom—that was a convenient excuse—but a deep-seated self-destructiveness that had frustrated and frightened Mycroft for twenty years. For he had never understood this aspect of Sherlock's character.

Until recently, Mycroft hadn’t comprehended the depth of Sherlock’s dependence on the Watsons. The relationship between John and Mary had not resulted, as Mycroft had expected, in a more reasonable relationship between Sherlock and John. Instead, Sherlock had become almost as attached to Mary Watson as he was to her husband. And Mary Watson’s comment about her husband coming around “in a few weeks” made Mycroft’s blood boil. Was this what John Watson considered looking out for the man he still claimed was his best friend? For a man in a “caring profession”, he had very loose values around what could be considered quality of care. But Mycroft also knew that Lestrade had been correct: any effort on Mycroft’s part to intervene would likely only make matters worse. So he had to stay his hand in this matter as well, regardless of what it did to his blood pressure.

~ + ~

**Friday, February 6**

“Why are we _still_ discussing this?” Blythe asked the group in general, and for once Mycroft had to heartily agree with the man. 

_Because they're still out there, still sending us messages—and thank you for sharing that, Blythe, by the way—and still a threat to the nation, whoever they are_ , Mycroft thought to himself as Blythe's increasingly agitated rant flowed over the occupants of the room. _Unless, of course, it was you and your minions who took old CCTV footage, forged new time stamps and dangled it in front of Sherlock in an attempt to tempt him down another useless rabbit hole _.__

__“We still need answers as to how the hacking happened—” Lady Smallwood began, before Cartwright cut her off. “The almost non-existent hacking, you mean. It was the same as before: bribery, deceit and inside assistance. Fewer than one third of the broadcasters were actually hacked.” Mycroft wondered if Blythe was hiding the existence of the CCTV footage from Lady Smallwood, as well. She still hadn't mentioned it to Mycroft, so he was starting to think that might be the case. In its own way, the possibility was intriguing and allusive._ _

__“So I ask again: why has this case not been closed?” Blythe asked; his words were directed to the room, but in the end his gaze landed on Mycroft._ _

_As if I have any authority over the proceedings. Changed your mind? Now you're desperate to get rid of Sherlock?_ , Mycroft mused. He thought about what Sherlock might have found that Blythe wanted buried, and if it were related to this new twist in the case. He wondered if it was related to Sherlock's visit to the National Archives in Tuesday. 

__“We need answers, Sir Edwin. This should never have happened and we need to determine if there's a regulatory response required to ensure it doesn't happen again,” the Home Secretary countered. At that moment, Mycroft realised that the ongoing open status of the investigation was most likely due to Lady Smallwood's influence with the Home Secretary. For as soon as the MI5 case was closed, Sherlock would be on an aeroplane to his next, possibly fatal, assignment. And this time Mycroft would have even fewer resources available to help keep Sherlock safe while overseas._ _

__“Should we not then transfer the investigation to someone capable of making actual progress on it?” Blythe had the bit between his teeth and wasn't going to let go, apparently. “Perhaps he should spend less time gallivanting around, wasting his time on Met cold cases.”_ _

__Mycroft felt the Home Secretary's eyes on him as he and Blythe locked stares. “And what resources have been made available to Sherlock to assist in his endeavours? Not that I am in any way attempting to barge my way into an MI5 investigation, of course. But it seems to me, from what I've been made privy to in these meetings, that he's been asked to sort out this mess entirely on his own.”_ _

__The Home Secretary turned her attention most purposefully to Blythe, and from the expression on her face Mycroft knew that he had unexpectedly revealed something of significance. The Minister had not ordered Sherlock to be marginalised. And now she knew about Blythe's scheme, as well. Most interesting, Mycroft thought. And then he wondered if she knew about the CCTV footage; he was sorely tempted to mention it, just to see how much of a rumpus would result, but he held his tongue. Making Blythe aware that he knew about the CCTV footage would accomplish nothing other than endanger Lestrade, for no effective gain._ _

__But Blythe recovered quickly and well, as Mycroft would have expected. “The man's notorious for refusing to deal with MI5 administration. And MI6, for that matter. He works alone. Always has.”_ _

__“No. He does not,” Mycroft replied quietly and deliberately. “His deductive work, yes, that is often conducted in isolation. But I've known him to take relevant and useful data from any source. That is one of his greatest strengths as an investigator, finding sources that others have overlooked. He would even accept data from GCHQ, if they were to share it,” he added, turning to Cartwright, who looked as though Mycroft had demanded they hand Sherlock the Crown jewels._ _

__Mycroft sat back and let the various parties debate the merits and demerits of leaving the investigation open. From across the table the Home Secretary caught his eye and Mycroft knew then that she also had deduced the implications of Mycroft's revelation: that Blythe was acting on his own. He was not working under the Home Secretary's guidance in regards to Sherlock and, Mycroft thought, would not stand in his way if he more overtly took the fight to Blythe._ _

__But would she be as sanguine when Mycroft took the man down entirely? Well, time would tell, he thought as he turned his attention back to the well-mannered squabbling going on around them._ _

__~ + ~_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder what Sherlock, John and the rest of them have been up to this week? Find out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/12077915).


	6. Well, I hope you got what you wanted

**Sunday, February 8**

“I'm sorry I'm so late.” Christina slid into the chair across from Mycroft.

“Think nothing of it. I was delayed, as well.”

They gave each other polite, slightly distant smiles as they opened their menus.

“How was the meeting?” Mycroft asked, not really interested, but knowing he had to start the conversation on neutral ground.

She stared off across the room for a moment as she composed her response. “Fractious. We're replacing four of the village cottages and some of the old-timers are up in arms.”

“Some people don't cope well with change.”

“No, they really don't. Yet the very same people have been complaining for as long as I've been involved with the estate about those very same cottages. I suppose I don't consider damp, poky shacks to be 'quaint', nor do I 'have enough respect for tradition'. And I'm not dumping more money into keeping kennels for retired family retainers—” She paused to watch him toy with a fork for a moment before he noticed she was watching him do so and stopped. “I apologise for boring you.”

Mycroft chastised himself for being caught out. “No, no. It's refreshing to listen to someone talk about something they genuinely care about.”

He knew that she saw through his little fib, but she didn't comment. “It'll all be Stephen's one day and someone from the family needs to pay attention until he's ready to take it on. I want to hand it off in better shape than I found it. And god knows, Sebastian never had a head for business. Neither did his father, hence the state of things.”

“But you do.”

“Yes, I do.” She smiled. “Which surprises me, still. God knows, nothing I've ever done before prepared me for it.” She shrugged. “Most of it's common sense and sticking to a budget.”

Christina turned her attention back to the rest of the restaurant. Mycroft couldn't help but think she was testing him again, bringing up her ex-husband, discussing his family and their business. He didn't for a moment think she was giving him an opening to question her about Moran, not about anything that mattered. So he decided to start with things that didn't matter, and proceed from there.

“You never really cared for him, did you?”

She was obviously startled by that question, and didn't answer for a moment before apparently deciding to indulge him. “We didn't love each other, if that's what you mean. We were both very up-front about that from the start. I think we both suffered from the same affliction.” When she didn't continue Mycroft prompted her with a questioning look. “Detachment,” she finally added and he gave a slight nod of recognition.

“Have you ever wondered why he chose you?”

She choked off a huff of laughter. “I'm trying to figure out who that's more insulting to, me or Sebastian.”

“It wasn't meant to be.” Mycroft wasn't sure how much of her offence was real and how much teasing, but it was obvious he'd hit some sort of nerve, which annoyed him. It was his second mistake of the evening and he sensed that another would result in her leaving, and he couldn't afford that.

“No, I don't suppose you'd understand why anyone might think it was.”

“Now _that_ was an insult.” He paused while she chuckled quietly at his expense, and Mycroft felt the tension between them ease a little. “How did the two of you meet? I never did figure that out.”

“Now _that_ I know must be in my file,” she replied with a spritely hint of the whip in her tone; Mycroft waited for the inevitable fall-out, but it didn't come.

“You met some resistance, I imagine.”

She nodded. “Sebastian's father was taken aback by the whole thing. But he'd brought an American stewardess home to his parents, so he wasn't in a position to criticise. I think he was just shocked Sebastian did something so unconventional; he'd always made such an effort to be boring, do exactly what everyone expected.”

“A reputation for boring conventionality is the best possible cover.”

“You would know, I suppose.” 

They shared tight smiles, like a pair of salutes sent out from opposing ends of the piste. Mycroft decided it was time to get the conversation back on track now that the preliminary passes were complete.

“So running the estate was meant to replace your studies? Why did you abandon them? I recall your work meant a great deal to you once.”

She gave him a level stare and Mycroft knew that she knew exactly where he was trying to take the conversation. “Stephen. I had a terrible time my first pregnancy. In and out of hospital. I was about one third finished my thesis and I lost track of it. Afterwards, it just seemed—irrelevant. And I had quite serious post-partum depression for six months or so.”

Her admission startled him; she was attempting to distract him with a pretence of candour, and he wasn't sure how much it might profit him to play along. “Oh. I didn't know that.”

“Not in my file?” She smirked. “I was in a pretty bad state for a while there.”

If the revelation had been true, it would have made Mycroft uncomfortable, being privy to such a confidence from someone he didn't have a personal relationship with. It was a decent opening salvo, and demonstrated a respectable understanding of what might unnerve him.

“I went back to my thesis and tinkered with it for a while, but my heart wasn't in it anymore. Then I got pregnant again, and that was that. The cradle is the enemy of science, as well as art, apparently.”

Mycroft knew this tale to be a lie. _That_ was most definitely in her MI5 file, among the periodic reports from her thesis supervisor. Christina had returned to her studies in the two years before the birth of her daughter, but she had not gone back to them afterwards. And Mycroft was sure that whatever had caused this change was to do with Moran, and it had driven her away from her work. Mycroft suspected he knew what it was, and that this event had been the beginning of the end of her marriage. For days his instincts had been telling him that this event or events were central to cracking open the Moran case, so he couldn't let it go.

“Do you miss it?”

“Does your mother?” She took a sip of water, her face showing nothing but polite curiosity.

 _Interesting redirection_ , he thought as he waited for their server to leave after depositing their starters on the table. “I've never heard her express an opinion on the matter one way or another. Perhaps that can be read as proof she has no regrets.”

“At least none that she's willing to admit to you. Regrets, anger, blame, they often come out in unexpected ways.” 

Mycroft ensured his expression showed nothing more than watchfulness, as hers did. He was intrigued by her attempts to divert the conversation to his family. He thought they'd moved beyond the fruitless personal jousting, and her alluding to Sherlock just after bringing up his mother seemed an uncharacteristically circuitous route to whatever point she was trying to make.

“Did it bother you that one of the principal results of all your work with the estate was to free up your husband for his extra-curricular activities?” _In for a penny_ , Mycroft thought as Christina's eyebrows flew up at the question. He was pleasantly surprised that she's caught both his meanings; he hoped it meant there'd be less dancing around the Moran question from now on.

“Not really. Politics is an expensive game, and I knew when I married him that Sebastian took his work seriously.”

Mycroft could tell from the hint of amused challenge in her eyes that her obtuseness was bluff. He ensured that a tiny sliver of disdain remained in his voice as he replied. “You know that is not what I meant.”

“Perhaps you should have said what you really meant, then.” She leant back in her chair, food ignored in favour of a faintly disappointed look that said, “You should have known I'd say that”.

He gave her the slightest possible nod in acknowledgement of her point, much as it irked him to do so. “Have you had any further thoughts on Deborah Oppenheimer?”

“Now _there's_ a non sequitur.”

Mycroft was glad to see he'd finally managed to wrong-foot her; now he needed to shake her out of her complacency. “I thought it best to move the conversation to a topic you would find less distressing than your ex-husband obviously is.”

“I wasn't upset.”

“You seemed to be.”

“A misapprehension on your part.”

“Then why do you refuse to discuss him?”

“I wasn't.”

“You consider your responses to be fulsome? I beg to differ.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft saw the waiter bearing their main courses make a U-turn and head back toward the kitchen. He knew their voices hadn't risen to that degree, but their waiter had sensed the tension between the two of them and declined to step into the middle of it. He could tell from Christina's slightly abashed expression that she had noticed, as well. She leant across their table and stage-whispered, “We're upsetting the staff, dear.”

Mycroft couldn't help a brief chortle.

“We need to find a way to work together without irritating the hell out of each other,” Christina continued, conciliatory. “And if I can make a suggestion, imitating Edwin Blythe isn't the best place to start.”

Mycroft didn't bother hiding his annoyance; he knew she'd interpret it as a reaction to her connection between him and Blythe rather than his failure. On the other hand, he was glad to see her willing to play peacemaker; it meant she was invested in maintaining their arrangement, which was essential for his plan. Though he hoped these little flare-ups would cease. The constant testing was dull, wearying and slowing him down.

He hoped she wouldn't require three attempts to break through this newest barrier, just as he'd had to do when he'd first attempted to engage her attention. She was watching him again, before glancing towards the kitchen to catch their waiter's eye. 

Mycroft contemplated which was more likely: that for the last month she had been throwing obstacles in his path because she'd known he expected them, or because she truly had doubts about his motives and felt compelled to continually test them. Then his brain's pattern recognition functionality, which had been merrily chewing through data, tossed to the front of his conscious mind an analysis of Christina's behaviour since their first conversation. And it was the most he could do to hide his reaction as she picked at her meal, giving him occasional glances, almost as if she were waiting for exactly that.

Three approaches, and three tests. Three times she'd forced him to knock at the door. Three opportunities for him to tell her the truth, or something she'd be willing to accept as the truth. Three trials, because from the beginning he'd expected them. And her startling acceptance of his terms almost from the very beginning, once he'd shown willing to be a little honest with her.

Mycroft knew now that Christina had meant from the very beginning to say yes. But she had known he would be suspicious if she'd accepted at the start, considering their history. She had known he would expect protests, arguments and dismissals, so she had given them to him, all to distract him from thinking about why she had agreed to help him.

All things considered, Mycroft had to admit it was quite well done, especially for an amateur. She'd kept him away from her motives for three weeks. Admittedly, he'd had other distractions, but the execution of her plan had been admirable. Now that he'd realised what she'd been doing for the past month, the pattern was obvious, as were her true motives for assisting him.

He wondered if Christina had realised the day of the “Moriarty video” that Blythe would be coming after her again. Her behaviour this evening indicated that had been the case and that she'd been waiting for him to acknowledge it. And she likely had known Mycroft's game the moment she saw him at the Archives that first meeting, which would explain her frustration at his persistent attempts to force her to play it. 

He smiled and when she saw it, returned it. To him that moment seemed to be their true re-introduction to each other. Everything before had been strangers acting a farce. She seemed genuinely glad that he had finally worked it out and Mycroft was again perplexed by her strange attitude to the contest. It was as if she wasn't playing with real money, only pennies used as counters, and this was possibly the greatest danger to her. He needed to convince her that for her own sake she had to play for real stakes, because everyone else on the pitch certainly was. But he now knew that she would continue their affiliation as long as Blythe was a threat to her, and Mycroft had to ensure that until it was all done he resisted the temptation to take her support for granted. 

~ + ~

**Monday, February 9**

“Has Sherlock spoken to you again about the CCTV footage from the 30th?”

Lestrade started at the question and Mycroft couldn't understand why. “He sent me a text Friday evening about it, and again on Sunday afternoon. That's all.”

“He hasn't spoken to you about it?”

“Nope.”

Mycroft suppressed a sigh. Why did no one else think this might be important? But it was obvious that Lestrade was going to be of no help in the matter at all; he might have to resort to talking to Christina about it again, which wasn't an appealing prospect. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you for something that will put you in a difficult position.”

Lestrade appeared to take the statement in his stride; he settled back in the chair across from Mycroft's desk, folding his arms across his chest. “All right, then.” 

Mycroft wondered if he were going to do something silly, like try to bargain for a favour in exchange. “Do you make a habit of promising favours without first asking what they are?”

“Didn't promise anything, did I? 'All right' meant 'feel free to ask', not 'here's carte blanche'.”

Mycroft gave the man a thin smile in exchange for his grin. “I wonder, is it possible for you to search Met records securely?”

“You mean, with no one finding out I did it?”

“Yes.”

“Probably not. I mean, maybe? I'm not an IT guy, so I can't be sure. But my guess would be no. Especially not if someone was really paying attention.”

“As is likely. The fact that you cannot answer the question with any certainty leads me to think you likely wouldn't know a back way into the system.”

“Er, no. Not my area, as Sherlock would say. You want hacking into the Met you'll need a proper cracker, not a middle-aged plod. Is this about this mystery CCTV footage you keep going on about?”

“Unfortunately, I seem to have recently—” Mycroft was interrupted by Lestrade's mobile ringing. 

The man looked sheepish as he dug it out of his pocket and Mycroft speculated that the recent dressing down he'd received for ignoring Sherlock in favour of his new friend might be behind his decision to ignore manners and tend to his phone. 

“Sorry about that. Thought I'd—” Lestrade glanced at the screen. “Sherlock. I should—”

“Yes, of course.” 

“Lestrade.” The man paused for a moment and Mycroft realised he had never witnessed Lestrade dealing with Sherlock. If nothing else, it might be amusing to watch someone else be on the receiving end of his brother's petulance and sense of entitlement. 

“At the office. Where else would I be at this time of the day?” Lestrade muttered into his phone.

 _Amateur mistake. Never answer a question with another question,_ Mycroft mused as he watched the man's expression change to the familiar mix of amusement and annoyance common to people who had to deal with Sherlock in one of his moods.

“What do you want? I'm in the middle of something here.” There was a short pause, and whatever Sherlock had asked for was obviously alarming in some way. “What? What do you want that for?”

Mycroft wondered if it was something illegal, or just explosive. He gave Lestrade a questioning look, which the other man waved away.

“No way, Sherlock. We don't have anything on that.”

_Ah, Met records. Something to do with a cold case, then._

“I can't let you see what we have on Moran; you don't have anywhere near the security clearance for a start.”

Mycroft's heart sank at the name, but wasn't surprised. It was the only logical reason behind Deborah Oppenheimer taking Sherlock to see Christina. And while he was glad Sherlock had picked up that clue and run with it, he was concerned that Sherlock had questioned Lestrade about Moran over the phone, which he must know was being monitored. That didn't speak to Sherlock thinking clearly. While Lestrade was still focused on his conversation, Mycroft called up the Baker Street live feed on his computer. To his dismay, Sherlock had removed the cameras again.

The thought of being in a race with Sherlock for information on Moran did not thrill Mycroft. Blythe was probably laughing in his cups at the thought of pitting the Holmes brothers against each other in a mad scramble to do Blythe's job for him.

“Some of us manage to learn that before the age of forty, you know.” Lestrade was becoming agitated and in his mind Mycroft could hear Sherlock's reply: _Thirty-nine_.

“How's the Robichaud case going? You know, the one you're supposed to be working on?” Lestrade's tone was getting sulky and Mycroft wondered if he needed to step in. If for no other reason than to question why Lestrade thought Met cold cases were Sherlock's priority over a possible new avenue to investigate in the broadcast hacking case.

It was soon obvious that Sherlock and Lestrade's conversation had moved on to the inevitable useless sniping and arrangements for dinner, so Mycroft shifted half his attention to the question of Sherlock, Moran, Christina and Blythe. There was a certain grim satisfaction on receiving another tiny piece of evidence to support his instincts about the inter-connectedness of the various games going on around him. 

“So. Moran.” Lestrade's almost-question drew Mycroft's attention back to the man. “How is he related to all this? I mean, if you can say.”

“I'm afraid there is very little I can tell you that you don't already know. You were involved in the arrest; other than that, I'm afraid—”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“And you know what happened to the file afterwards?”

“Yeah, I got to experience that first hand.”

The man was still bitter, which Mycroft thought spoke poorly of him. Lestrade was apparently one of those policemen who thought police work was the be-all and end-all, and had little appreciation for the delicate balancing of objectives that drove Intelligence work.

“The matter is entirely under the umbrella of MI5, and has been for some time.”

“Why?”

“Because his arrest was in relation to a domestic terrorism incident.”

“But there were non-domestic ones, too, I'm guessing.”

“I really cannot comment.”

“Uh huh.” Lestrade turned his attention inward for a few seconds and Mycroft wondered if he would try to make the connection that everyone else involved in the current situation seemed to be trying to prove. “Was he working with Moriarty?”

 _And there it is. Well done, Lestrade._ “I wasn't aware you had changed your mind about wanting to be involved.”

“I haven't. But it seems like everyone Sherlock was investigating a few years ago was; why not him, too? Odd, Moran turning up again.” Lestrade paused again and Mycroft could tell from his expression that the man's brain had suddenly added two and two and discovered the number four for the first time. “That's why you brought Sherlock back from whatever he was doing when he was away. You thought then that Moran might be working for Moriarty and you wanted him to prove it.”

“No, that is not why. I brought him back to prevent a terrorist attack, that is all.” _And that is all I'm ever going to admit to you, Chief Inspector._

“Did you know it was Moran back then?”

“I can't help but be curious at the inconsistency between your claim of disinterest and your questions.”

“It's all going to blow up in our faces, isn't it?”

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

Lestrade's expression shifted from curious to calculating and Mycroft couldn't help a brief internal sigh of annoyance. First Christina, now Lestrade. Why, suddenly, did everyone think they were in a position to critique his job performance?

~ + ~

**Tuesday, February 10**

“Good morning, Sir Edwin. How was your trip to New York?”

The man did a double-take, then peered at Andrea for a moment before regaining his usual deceptively bland expression. “Fine.” 

Mycroft could tell she had wrong-footed the man with her question. For his part, Mycroft was surprised by it as well; Andrea rarely tried to draw attention to herself, as she appeared to be doing.

“I've always wanted to spend Christmas in New York. It's always seemed such an exciting place to be at that time of year.”

She was almost gushing and Mycroft wondered what exactly was going on. Blythe gave her a suspicious scowl, muttered something under his breath, and turned to Mycroft. “My assistant will have that draft to you this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied as the man stalked away.

As he and Andrea made their way through the building to his office, he held back his questions about the odd exchange. When they arrived, she followed him in and closed the door behind her. Instead of sitting, she leant back on the door with her hands behind her. Mycroft could tell she was holding back a grin and was almost vibrating with excitement. When she didn't offer an explanation, he knew she was waiting for him to ask.

“What was that in aid of? And how did you know Sir Edwin was in New York?” During the walk back from the meeting he had, of course, realised the implications of her revelation, but he wanted her to explain _why_ she'd confronted Blythe with it. “Something happened while he was in New York.”

She nodded, her eyes shining. “He returned to London the Sunday evening.”

“Yes, he was present at Lady Smallwood's meeting on the Monday morning.” Mycroft sat, his back to her for a moment as he ratcheted down on his urge to grin, for he had very strong suspicions he knew where the conversation was going. When he turned back to her, Andrea was watching him like a cat about to leap on a fallen sparrow. But he didn't let his impatience demand she tell him; after what she'd been through since the New Year, he thought she deserved the satisfaction she would get out of telling the tale as she wished.

“Sir Edwin was in New York for Christmas,” she began.

“Yes.”

“But he did not return to London from New York.”

Mycroft felt his heart stutter, but forced his voice into a playful lightness, in keeping with hers. “No?”

“No.”

She was enjoying teasing him, perhaps a bit too much, but he couldn't fault her for it. “Well?”

Finally, she released the sardonic grin she'd been holding back. “Washington.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, refusing to indulge the excitement that clamoured to be acknowledged at the edges of his mental playing field, like an excited parent that had just watched their child score the winning goal. 

_Langley_.

Their eyes met and Mycroft knew they were thinking the exact same thing.

“Though there are other reasons, I suppose, that Sir Edwin might leave his wife in New York, fly down to Washington early in the morning on Boxing Day, and return to London that evening from there.” Andrea began, an expression of fake contemplation on her face.

“Yes, there are some very fine museums,” Mycroft replied, granting her companionship in her little game of schadenfreude, while referencing their longest-standing private joke.

“It would be a pity to go all that way and not pop in to the Smithsonian.”

“Of course.” They continued to stare at each other across the room and Mycroft began to rein in his initial exhilaration. His smile began to deflate a little. “Though I can't help but wonder from whom you obtained this information.”

She gave him a slightly dismissive look as she pushed away from the door and sat in her usual chair in front of his desk. She paused for a few seconds and he wondered if she had changed her mind about telling him. Perhaps she was protecting her sources, but he thought that unlikely, considering the circumstances.

Andrea put her most professional, restrained expression on, though he could tell it was a sham and that she knew he could see through it. “I've always thought that if you want information, it's best to go to the people who control the information.”

“Who in the Home Office gave you Sir Edwin's itinerary?” Mycroft was genuinely shocked that the information had come from that source.

The look she gave him communicated hints of frustration, which was uncharacteristic of her, as she ordinarily would never have allowed him to see it. “Not the Home Office. His finance clerk. Did you know Nancy Latimer's daughter works for him?” Andrea paused and Mycroft realised the question hadn't been rhetorical. He wondered why Andrea had forgotten he wasn't in the habit of paying attention to this sort of thing. Then he realised that that was the point of her question, and he gave her a flick of a thin smile to let her know that the point had been taken.

“Well, I started out with just a general inquiry after her mum; she finally had her surgery last month. And it went on from there. And eventually Kirsty let slip that she'd had to come in on Christmas Day to wrangle a helicopter for Sir Edwin the next morning, then get him back to London, and how difficult it was, and anyway. She spilled it all, eventually.”

“And you thought a little turnabout was in order, letting him know someone on his staff had been indiscreet.” Mycroft couldn't help but admire her strategy. “Well played.”

“Thank you. And if the stupid girl ends up losing her job, it's just as well. Maybe she'll learn to keep her mouth shut in future.” She paused and gave a nonchalant shrug. “It'll likely only keep him occupied for a few days; she's not much of a liar, so she won't stand up to much scrutiny. And if the rest of his staff have kept their noses clean, they won't have anything to worry about.”

As he watched her talk, Mycroft felt something unwind in the middle of his chest, like a coiled spring releasing. A burden he'd stopped noticing he was carrying was abandoning his shoulders, slipping away like melting ice, and he didn't bother hiding his reaction from her. It was the least he could do.

Mycroft had always known that she would understand why he'd had to have his suspicions, and why he'd had to test her. But he'd also known that she'd been insulted by the entire premise behind that aspect of Blythe's game, and Mycroft was glad for her that she had been able to find a way to clear her name.

She watched him thinking this all through, then with a casual glance at her phone, stood. “I'd better get those reports to the Foreign Secretary's office.”

“Thank you.” 

At the door she turned back to him and Mycroft had the rare sensation of being unsure what to say next.

“I—”

“Just doing my job, sir.”

They watched each other across the room, each apparently waiting for the other to break cover. Then she turned and was gone, back to her desk and the million things she did to make it possible for Mycroft to do _his_ job. He felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction for both their sakes that they had moved past this problem.

They were back. _They_ were back, and while Mycroft knew that neither of them would ever speak of those events again, he also knew that neither of them would ever forget. Their six-year accord would, from now on, carry that little blemish, but for him it would act as a reminder to not take her for granted.

After Andrea left, Mycroft allowed himself a few minutes to ponder the irony of it all: one of the most powerful men in the country, an acknowledged master of the great game, quite possibly brought to his knees by a finance clerk. One of the invisible army of (mostly) women who kept the wheels of government turning, but who were ignored and taken for granted by the people who thought themselves important (including himself, he had to admit). But Mycroft tried to assuage his unease at how dependent the entire edifice was on the vast numbers of unseen, unacknowledged handlers and managers of the data they all relied upon, with the recognition that at least he employed people who understood how the machinery really worked. Then he realised that this fact didn't make him feel all that much better. 

~ + ~

**Wednesday, February 11**

_That's interesting._ Mycroft wasn't pleased to see Sherlock taking this particular approach to the Moran trail of clues. On the one hand, by pursuing Christina Martin it indicated Sherlock was looking at the Moran situation from every possible angle. On the other, it could mean he was possibly just working to Blythe's plan and Mycroft instinctively rebelled against the idea on principle. On the third hand (and Mycroft was not at all pleased that there _was_ a third hand), it could be that Deborah Oppenheimer had thrown Moran into the mix in order to distract Sherlock from the “Moriarty” CCTV footage. Regardless, Mycroft knew it was time for a bit of reverse psychology; Sherlock needed to be warned off using Christina. So Mycroft called Andrea and asked her to contact Lestrade and have him stop by Mycroft's Whitehall office first thing that morning.

As Peterson dropped him off, Andrea sent him a text: _Lestrade resistant. Busy, apparently._ Mycroft sighed; he hated it when people wouldn't just do as they were told. So he resigned himself to more legwork and called the man's number.

“Lestrade.”

“And a cheery good morning to you, as well, Chief Inspector. I hope I'm not taking you away from something urgent.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

Mycroft bit back the reply he wanted to fire back. “Sherlock has been pestering someone he should not be wasting his time on. I would appreciate it if you would stop by Baker Street on your way to Scotland Yard this morning and pass on my request that he leave her alone.”

“Please tell me you're not talking about Moran's ex-wife.”

Mycroft paused. Why would Lestrade care? “As a matter of fact, it is.”

“He won't like it.”

“When does Sherlock ever take requests or advice well?”

Lestrade snickered. “Okay. What do you recommend I offer him in exchange?”

“What, other than information about the broadcast hacking, which you do not have, or about Moran, which you cannot give him, does he want?”

There was a telling pause at the other end of the line; it sounded as though Lestrade had just left his flat, judging by the sound of jingling keys in the background and the fact it was 7:10 am.

“Nothing comes to mind; why do you think I asked? And there's no way I'm telling him anything about Moran. As soon as he starts chasing that down MI5 knows I talked and that kind of grief I'm not interested in.”

“I understand your concerns.” Mycroft could feel the man's cynicism radiating across the airwaves from the northeast, and he was glad that whoever might be listening in was in receipt of reassurances that both Lestrade and Mycroft were planning on behaving themselves in regards to the Moran situation. At least on record. 

“Yeah, but that doesn't help me, does it? And don't bother asking me to tell him anyway, because Sherlock's idea of discretion is to blab everything in order to impress John.”

“You'd be surprised, Lestrade. Sherlock is more capable of keeping secrets than most give him credit for. But he will expect you to protest and bargain.”

“Protests I can do.”

“Sherlock does like to feel as though he's contributing. Perhaps make him give you the solution to one of his cold cases; that way he'll comprehend more easily the value of what you would be offering him.”

There was another pause and Mycroft wondered if the man would take the bait. “I'll play it by ear; something'll come to me.”

“Very well. Thank you again.”

“Don't thank me until later, once we see whether or not this crashes down all over us.”

“A threat we face daily,” Mycroft replied, then signed off. Lestrade's melodramatic side revealing itself was an unexpected turn of events; Mycroft wondered if the “girlfriend” was responsible or it was simply an aspect of the man's personality he'd simply never seen before. Perhaps it was nothing more than a manifestation of his greater caution.

As he arrived at the office, Andrea greeted him with the overnight reports and his schedule for the day, as always. He was glad to see the usual mood of quiet efficiency had returned to his operations.

“You spoke to Chief Inspector Lestrade?”

“Yes. I needed him to direct my brother's attention away from what would have been a costly distraction.” Mycroft didn't like the half-lie, but he didn't want Andrea involved.

“The former Lady Moran?”

And she went there, anyway. Mycroft paused before answering, then decided that it was time for him to come down from the fence on the matter. “Yes.”

“Sir Edwin is preparing to re-start the Moran investigation?”

“I don't believe is has ever been entirely in abeyance. But yes, events at the beginning of the year have caused him to believe he has a new angle to investigate.” So far, so obvious. Mycroft wondered just how far Andrea would pursue the matter, and how severely his resolve to not tell her anything of substance would be tried.

“And you're trying to beat him to it.”

“The likelihood of the former Lady Moran knowing anything is virtually nil. But if Sir Edwin believes he has competition in his quest, it may impel him to a rash response and reveal something to our advantage.” Mycroft didn't like having to lie to Andrea now that their former accord had been re-established, but there was nothing to be gained by involving her in that particular scheme.

“It seems like a bit of a long shot.”

“Indeed. But at this stage anything that stymies him, even a little, is to our advantage.”

“And she believes you're pursuing a relationship with her?”

Mycroft paused. He hadn't expected Andrea's interest in this aspect of his plan. “I am not entirely sure what, exactly, she believes.” At Andrea's surprised expression, he gave her a thin smile. “She and I knew each other long ago, and nothing she's said or done indicates she's forgotten anything of those days.”

Later that afternoon, after Christina had called to reschedule their dinner engagement, Mycroft returned to his conversation with Andrea. It was unusual for her to pry; but it seemed to him that she might just be genuinely curious. She had never seen him play this particular role before. The game he was playing with Christina was so different from his usual work—so far beneath him, in fact—that Andrea would naturally be anxious about it, as well. And Mycroft admitted that Andrea's misplaced protectiveness of him must be causing her to worry, though he couldn't understand why. He hoped she didn't think that he was becoming attached to Christina; he thought Andrea knew him better than that.

Andrea's misconception of the situation supported his long-standing assumption that part of the reason why Lady Smallwood sent Mycroft to secure Christina was that the woman had been hoping they _would_ develop some sort of feelings for one another. A ludicrous notion, especially for someone who claimed to know both of them. Elizabeth Smallwood was going to be in for a disappointment if that had been part of her plan. And it was more likely to be Christina that delivered the blow.

~ + ~

**Thursday, February 12**

Mycroft sat back and surrendered himself to the luxury of a good, long think, the first he'd been able to for a few days, during which there had been revelations that caused him to need to reassess a number of factors in the ongoing games.

For almost two months now, Mycroft had felt the noose tightening around his neck. He had faced personal challenges before, of course, but none like this. And he knew he had few options to turn to for support. His greatest resource had been taken from him, and the notion that Elizabeth Smallwood had sent him Christina as some sort of recompense was idiotic. 

Not for the first time, Mycroft was amused (for lack of a better word) by the fact that many of the challenges he currently faced were exacerbated by a situation he'd spent twenty years cultivating for his own professional advantage. His working life functioned largely without formal chains of command. There was no departmental hierarchy that could be displayed on a PowerPoint slide. The map of his professional world was fluid, largely hidden, and almost entirely dependent on informal alliances and relationships of one kind or another. And over the course of his career, Mycroft had witnessed the entire gamut of relationships power the world in which he worked: familial, sexual, fraternal, competitive, sometimes even hateful. Each change of personnel, each shift in alliance, each alteration of external circumstances affected the delicate machinery of relationships, which was why it was the area of the civil service to most strenuously reject the professionalism that had been taking over Whitehall since the 1970s.

Mycroft long ago had mastered the art of unbalancing and rebalancing that machinery for his own purposes; it was one of the foundations of his professional success. But it had not come without a cost. At the moment he envied, just a little, the mundane civil servants. People like the former colleagues he'd left behind as his career had soared, people who had rules and policies, well-defined chains of command, clearly articulated operational mandates and ring-fenced funding to fall back on when under threat. They possessed none of the opportunities or diverting challenges that Mycroft did, none of the power, but they also never faced the possibility of loss of their life's work, the ignominious fall, and the very real threats currently faced by him and his brother.

Scrupulous attention to detail and a cautious depersonalization had always characterized Mycroft's interactions with his professional colleagues: unfailingly polite, deferential (where merited), amenable when he could be, merciless when the circumstances warranted it. With a few regrettable exceptions, he had kept all relationships on a professional footing, despite opportunities to do otherwise. He kept very high walls between his personal and professional opinions of his colleagues. He'd never had cause to regret this; in the long run he knew it was for the best. Friendships, much less flirtations, in the workplace caused nothing but grief in the long run. 

Mycroft had spent twenty-three years standing back and watching, casting his discerning eye over the nebulous networks of connections, alliances, mentorships, and devotions and their inevitable dissolutions. The webs of inter-personal operations grew around him and he never felt compelled to join in. 

He understood the system. Before the events at Appledore and their political fall-out, Mycroft could have tweaked any of those webs with a crook of his finger and watched the weaker hangers-on fall at his discretion. Since Christmas, that power had diminished but his knowledge remained: the pressure points, the weaknesses, the attendant fears inherent in the oldest and strongest alliances that surrounded him. 

But his authority was not like those of his colleagues and competitors. His was not based on affection, passion, ego, or other vacuous concerns. He had always known that sentiment was the most common pressure point of all. He had allowed himself only one. That would not change. Others had discerned it and ruthlessly taken advantage, as Mycroft had done to others for the same purpose. 

However, Mycroft wondered if he'd become blind to the reasons why others allowed themselves so often to be guided by their desires, and the possibility that they might possess some broader utility. Now he wondered just how strong his professional alliances were without the reinforcement of sentiment. Had his assumptions been correct, or was the fall going to come despite his efforts to eliminate in himself the weaknesses that others fell prey to? 

~ + ~

**Friday, February 13**

“How was your meeting with Sherlock?”

Peterson hadn't even closed the door behind Lestrade yet, but Mycroft wasn't in the mood to be patient.

“Went according to plan.”

“So he told you the solution to the Robichaud case?”

Lestrade didn't appear surprised that Mycroft had deduced the payment Sherlock had made for the information Lestrade had given him.

“Yep.”

Mycroft gave him a questioning look when Lestrade declined to elaborate.

“He said the son hired the Bowman brothers to rob the shop and Robichaud interrupted them and got shot.”

Mycroft nodded. “As I expected. What evidence did he present?”

“Not much, to be honest. Doctored security footage and a lot of supposition.”

“Did you discuss the Bowmans?”

“Did you want me to? No, really, Mycroft. You want specifics you need to tell me; I'm not a mind reader.”

“I assumed—”

“Don't.” Lestrade gave him a mulish scowl. “And yes, we discussed the Bowmans. A bit.”

“Did Sherlock mention Florida?”

“No.”

Mycroft paused and wondered if Sherlock had declined to discuss the matter with Lestrade because he assumed that Lestrade wouldn't be able to provide him with any data. Mycroft recognised that there was no point in pursuing the matter when it was too late to do anything about it. When he didn't comment, Lestrade continued.”

“Florida's part of your pet theory? Wait, is this related to Mrs Hudson?”

“I do not have 'pet theories'.”

Lestrade chortled “Frank Hudson murdered Nick Bowman.”

“Yes, he most certainly did.”

“Frank Hudson is connected to the Robichaud case through Bowman.”

“No.”

“So, why's Bowman important?”

“In himself, he's not.”

Lestrade glanced over to him. “Why the curiosity about the Robichaud case, then? What was the connection you wanted Sherlock to find?”

“That's not something you need to concern yourself with.”

The man looked as though he had a caustic reply on the tip of his tongue. To avoid Mycroft's gaze, Lestrade turned his attention back to the window beside him. “Weird coincidence. And yeah, Sherlock's told me you don't believe in them.” He paused and Mycroft left him to make the connection that was sure to follow. “You sent Sherlock over there, didn't you?”

“In a way.”

“What does that mean?”

“Sherlock was sent on an assignment. Unfortunately, he then decided to amend the terms of his mission. Without authorisation. And before I was able to extract him, it was too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“Something else you need not concern yourself with, Lestrade.”

“So why mention it?”

“I—” Mycroft paused, surprised that Lestrade of all people had to remind him of the need for discretion. “I probably shouldn't be having this conversation with you. But—” He searched for the exact words, then shook his head. “No, I really cannot say. Please accept my apologies. I've become too accustomed recently to burdening you with things outside your purview, and I've allowed myself to become inexcusably lax.”

Mycroft felt the other man's attention on him again for a few seconds. He didn't expect his attempt to head off Lestrade's curiosity would work now that he had been so careless as to incite it. 

“Nick Bowman's the connection. To Frank Hudson.” Lestrade apparently wasn't going to let the matter go, to Mycroft's chagrin. The other man shifted on his seat and returned to staring out at the passing traffic as he continued. “But who is Frank Hudson the connection to? I looked him up once, after Sherlock started living at Baker Street. He was a nasty piece of work from the get-go. Went straight from the army to the drug trade, and off to America. And Nick Bowman was ex-army, too.” He turned back to Mycroft. “Am I getting warm here?”

Mycroft ensured his face displayed none of his concern with Lestrade's excellent policeman's instincts coming in to play. “You have data, Lestrade. But you do not have the right data to turn those facts into knowledge. I'd recommend abandoning your quest.”

“Is that when Sherlock starting taking drugs, when he was in America?”

“No, that started long before.”

“Yet you sent him after a drug gang.”

“I most certainly did not.”

The car stopped and Peterson opened the door next to Lestrade. The man looked out, then back to Mycroft. “We're at the Yard.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You work here, Lestrade. You were expecting another destination?”

“You picked me up so we could drive around in circles and talk. Also in circles.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, Lestrade. Because I have nothing better to do with my time than to take you for a ride.”

“That was almost a joke. Will wonders never cease?” Lestrade stepped out of the car, then leant back in to give Mycroft his parting thoughts. “Well, I hope you got what _you_ wanted.”

“I usually do, in the end.”

Lestrade bit off a laugh, then gave Mycroft a brief wave of goodbye before strolling away.

Mycroft turned his mind to the tiny nuggets of relevant data that had been subsumed in the general detritus of the conversation just concluded. He didn't quite know what to think of Sherlock's apparent lack of interest in following up the trail of breadcrumbs from the Robichaud case to Frank Hudson and hence into the murky backwaters of American drug cartels. He'd thought it would be just the sort of puzzle to tempt Sherlock, but apparently not. For a few seconds, Mycroft pondered the possibility that Sherlock's lack of interest was founded on a belief that he already knew the answer at the end of that particular trail. And if that were the case, Mycroft wondered what he might have to do to induce his brother to share his thoughts on the matter.

With a sigh, Mycroft filed the subject away, to be taken out again when the next opportunity presented itself. At this stage it was just a theory, one which Mycroft sincerely hoped, in the end, would be wrong.

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering what Sherlock and John and the rest of the gang are up to, you can find out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/12137405).


	7. Hook, line, sinker, and half the rod

**Saturday, February 14 and Sunday, February 15**

Five seconds after turning on the television, Mycroft was standing stock-still in the middle of his office.

_Metropolitan Police state that they have not identified any suspects in the hit-and-run, which occurred just after 3 am. There have been no public statements from any of the families of the three victims. More details will follow as soon as they become available._

Mycroft stared at the three-year-old still photo of Moran on the screen, under which was the headline, _Peer's daughter attacked_.

Still slightly unbalanced from the shock, Mycroft sat behind his desk and took out his mobile. He pulled up Christina's number, then hesitated, unsure if he should call her. What could he say? Condolences from him likely wouldn't be of much comfort; he needed to be able to offer her something tangible. While he dithered, his phone rang.

“Yes, Chief Inspector?”

“Have you seen the news yet?”

“Are you referring to the incident involving Lord Moran's daughter?”

“Yeah. You're friends with the wife, aren't you?”

“Ex-wife. And yes.”

“Have you talked to her this morning?”

“I haven't yet had the chance to call. I saw the report less than a minute ago. Are you involved in the investigation?”

“Not really. Joe Farrell, one of the DIs under me, he's running it. But anything with a high-profile victim the brass get nervous. Joe said the mother is refusing to let them talk to the girl.”

Mycroft's heart sank. “And you would like me to intervene.” Considering Christina's probable state of mind, he wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

“If you think that'd help, yeah. But any advice you can give on how to approach her would help. Her daughter's the only one of the three girls able to talk right now, and whoever's responsible has a five-hour jump on us already.”

Mycroft gave the matter a few seconds' thought. “You're not going to like this piece of advice, Lestrade, but I'd recommend letting her contact you.”

“I can't do that. I can't tell Farrell to just let her be and let whoever did this walk away. The press is all over it and we have to make progress right now.”

“Yes, I understand.” Mycroft sighed and began massaging his temple with a fingertip; if this was how his day was beginning, he suspected it would hardly be a restful one. “She will not respond positively to the Met's usual ham-fisted attempts at intimidation or manipulation. She is well aware of the importance of a timely response, and is more than capable of outmanoeuvring anyone on the force. Emotional appeals will just irritate her and ensure that cooperation won't be forthcoming.” He paused as an idea popped into his head. “Would you be willing to act as go-between for her and Inspector Farrell? She might be more comfortable speaking to someone who's a known quantity.”

“But I'm not; she doesn't know me from Adam.”

“Let me take care of that. Do you agree?”

“Sure, yeah, do what you think best. But she needs to talk to someone soon or Farrell's going to charge her with obstruction.”

“Which would be entirely fatal to your investigation. Christina is the only person I know as stubborn as Sherlock.”

Lestrade laughed. “Christ, that's saying something.”

“Indeed. I'll call her immediately.”

“Thanks, Mycroft.”

“Do you truly have no leads?”

“The car disappeared from CCTV in Essex, near South Ockendon. Essex Police are still looking for it. It wasn't reported stolen, but we haven't been able to contact the registered owner, so we're trying to chase him down, too.”

“Please let me know if there's any assistance I can provide on that, as well. And I would appreciate receiving any information as it arises.”

“Yeah, I will, thanks.”

“I'm glad to be able to help.”

“Oh, one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“I'm going over to Sherlock's this afternoon; I've got a delivery for him.”

It took Mycroft a second or two to realise what Lestrade was talking about; the Adler woman must have sent a reply to Sherlock. Mycroft toyed with the idea of having Lestrade bring it to him first, then dismissed it; he would be able to tell the nature of the woman's answer based on how his brother responded. “When you're there, please don't mention last night's events to Sherlock. If he asks, plead ignorance. I do not want him disturbing her.”

If the request startled Lestrade, Mycroft couldn't tell from his reply. “Will do.”

After ringing off, Mycroft cradled his mobile against his chest, idly tapping the back. Why was Christina refusing to cooperate with police? The only reason he could think of with the data available was that she thought she knew who was responsible and didn't want the police getting in her way as she went after them. Mycroft had a very bad feeling about that.

When his first call went to voicemail, he wasn't surprised. After the second and third did as well, he began to be concerned. At the fourth, Mycroft decided to bow to circumstances and leave her a message. “Christina. I've just seen the report on the news. Please let me know if there's anything you need. Also, if there's anything you require from the Met, feel free to call Detective Chief Inspector Greg Lestrade. He's an excellent man; I trust him completely, and if you have any questions or concerns about the investigation, I recommend you contact him. Again, if there's anything at all you need, please let me know.” After leaving Lestrade's number, Mycroft signed off, with a growing sense of unease.

Over the course of the day, he couldn't help but be somewhat distracted by the events of that morning. The timing of the attack might indicate that whoever was responsible knew of Mycroft's “relationship” with Christina, but he couldn't be sure that that was the motive behind the attack on her daughter and the girl's friends. Following that particular train of thought back to its logical source led to Blythe, and Mycroft wasn't inclined to think this particular weapon was within his arsenal. Nothing Mycroft knew of the man indicated that he was willing to bring civilians into the game. It was the act of a terrorist, not a spymaster. That realisation pointed the finger of culpability to whoever was responsible for the “Moriarty video”, presumably someone remaining from the man's organisation. People still unknown and unaccounted for, to the chagrin of Mycroft and the apparently few remaining people who still cared about the solution to that mystery.

Mycroft stared at his phone and tried to will Christina to call him. Regardless of who was behind the attack, he had to ensure—for her safety as much as that of Sherlock or anyone else tangentially connected—that she would not go haring off after whoever she thought was responsible, even if it might be interesting to see who she suspected.

When an hour had passed since his message and he had still not received a reply, Mycroft forced himself to move on to other things. He puttered around his apartment, wasted half an hour glaring at Baker Street security footage and re-reading Mrs Fraser's reports, then hit the end of things he could occupy himself with while waiting for Christina. So he turned his attention to Blythe and refining some of his currently inchoate ideas about possible new avenues of incursion.

Pollay seemed to be responding as expected to Mycroft's overture, but that victory was as yet a minor one. For it to become a significant blow, a series of events outside Mycroft's control needed to occur. He would need to continue developing lines of attack until he was able to undermine Blythe explicitly. There were a number of possibilities, and Mycroft whiled away the rest of the day building, testing, tearing down, and revising all of them before settling on a promising candidate.

Despite the nagging worry about Christina, and the possible implications of the attack, by the end of the day Mycroft felt almost refreshed. He'd always found analysis of the type he'd engaged in that day relaxing, allowing himself to sink down into his mind and lose himself in the stratagems he constructed there, cutting himself off from the draining distractions that seemed to fill more and more of his working days.

When Christina still had not returned his calls by the time he sat down to dinner, Mycroft began to wonder if he should try another approach for getting in touch with her. He resisted the urge to call Lestrade to inquire if she had reached out to him; he knew this would just irritate everyone involved and make it appear to anyone watching that Mycroft was again attempting to involve himself in matters outside his currently allowed sphere, despite his current situation vîs-a-vîs Christina.

Shortly after awaking the next morning, Mycroft saw that she had sent him a text just after 2.00 am.

_Stop worrying. Not planning anything rash. And thank you for the offer. Will let you know._

He couldn't help a chuckle at the entirely unexpected tone and her prescience regarding his concerns. Laying back in bed, he typed a response. 

_Good to hear. Are you still at the hospital?_

As he was finishing his breakfast, her response arrived. _Home now. S @ her grandmother's._

Mycroft wondered at that. But he knew nothing of Christina's relationship with her daughter, and frankly wasn't interested. _Would you like me to come by?_

Whoever was watching would expect him to offer; he was, after all, supposed to be her “boyfriend”. His watchers were probably wondering why he hadn't previously offered to run to her side to offer emotional support and condolences. Mycroft hoped her stubborn independence would come through and he would be saved from that particular nuisance, but he knew she was likely to accept his offer for appearances' sake.

_Later this aft. Dealing w. stupid police right now._

He smirked, imagining what poor Inspector Farrell would be going through, having to wrangle an agitated Christina. But the almost flippant tone of her text that morning set up a small knot of worry in a corner of Mycroft's mind that he wasn't able to shake all day. 

His first fear was allayed, though, when she opened the door of her house to him that afternoon, his second when she entreated him to enter with a wave. She was alone, which surprised him; he wondered why her son wasn't there, but as she didn't mention it, he thought it best not to ask. 

When he followed her into the library she seemed barely able to stay on her feet; he wondered if she had slept at all the night before. She gave no sign of acknowledgement when he overrode his inclinations and joined her on the sofa. The thing that concerned him most, though, was her silence. It seemed so out of character; but she had just suffered what Mycroft supposed was a terrible shock.

He was relieved that she wasn’t crying; he was terrible with criers. By the looks of her, all the fight was gone, though, leaving nothing but desolation behind. He had no idea how to respond to it other than to suppress his almost-overwhelming urge to flee the turmoil he didn't care to witness, and which he was sure was coming.

They continued to sit, her hunched over, head in her hands, him waiting for her to hit bottom. After fifteen minutes, Mycroft couldn’t tolerate the tension any longer. “Perhaps you should go to bed. You look done in.”

She replied without moving, “Don’t you fucking tell me what—” And then the tears came. Her body shaking with the effort it took to remain silent, Christina curled into a ball, arms wrapped around her head. Mycroft knew this was no act; her despair filled the room, her anguish sucking every ounce of oxygen out of it, leaving nothing but a headache-inducing heaviness in the air. He sat, frozen in place, entirely unsure how to respond. 

He knew he should do something, say something. That was the convention, wasn't it? One said or did some unknown _something_ perceived to be comforting by the recipient. This _comforting_ that was expected was well beyond Mycroft's experience, inclinations, and skill set. He desperately wanted to run from it all, but knew that doing so would eradicate weeks of progress. He cursed his upbringing and his nature, which left him wholly unprepared for this type of circumstance. 

Tentative, he reached out and took one of her hands in his and she gripped it like a vise, curling herself up even tighter. He held on through the storm, ignoring the discomfort of her strong fingers clutching his. After five minutes he realised what he was doing: giving her a lifeline with which to reel herself back to the world of the living when she was ready to return. He was surprised at his stunted instincts providing him with what appeared to be the correct response, though he knew not to congratulate himself on accomplishing one tiny act that ordinary people performed every day.

~ + ~

Mycroft hated kitchens. It was 11.42 pm and he stood in Christina's kitchen, warily eyeing the cupboard doors. She'd been sleeping for hours; he suspected she hadn't eaten all day and he felt an unwelcome stirring of worry in the back of his mind at that possibility. He made a desultory exploration of two cupboards, one of which contained cups and glassware and the other a bewildering array of spice jars, in a fruitless effort to dispel his annoying unease.

He decided to make Christina a cup of tea and use that as an excuse to wake her and make her eat something so that the disturbance in the back of his mind would go away. 

Tea made, he headed up the stairs and in her room found a Christina-sized lump under a duvet. He had to say her name three times before she began to stir. The bedding shifted and a tuft of brown hair and a bleary eye appeared.

“Why are you still here?” Her voice sounded as though she'd done a fair bit more crying before falling asleep.

“You should get out of bed. You haven't eaten all day.”

“Yes, mother.” She began to uncurl herself from under the duvet. She didn't appear to notice his discomfort as she patted the bed near her feet, inviting him to sit. To his chagrin there were no chairs in the room, so his only options were to sit on the bed or stand there like a valet. He sat.

Christina took two small sips of tea before placing the cup on the bedside table. 

She rested her chin on her knees. “What's going to happen next?”

“I do not know.”

“You're the man with all the plans; of course you know.”

“I'm afraid to inform you that your information on that matter is rather out of date.”

She stared at her hands, clasped around her legs. To Mycroft's eye, she seemed to be gradually returning to her usual self. “Who did this?”

“I do not know.”

“Do you think it was Blythe?”

Mycroft wondered why her thoughts had immediately gone to Blythe. Perhaps it was just the man's status as constantly-hovering threat that had caused her mind to turn in that direction, though Mycroft couldn't restrain himself from contemplating the matter of evidence again. “No.”

She glanced up at him, obviously surprised by the certainty in his voice. 

“Why did they go after her? She's _seventeen_ , for god's sake. What could they possibly accomplish going after her?” She clutched her head, elbows on her knees. “Christ, Tim and Amanda. They've lost their only child. I'll never be able to look them in the eye ever again.”

Mycroft didn't know how to respond to that statement, so didn't even essay an attempt. “I doubt the motives of whoever is responsible have anything to do with your daughter, per se. I'm inclined to think it was to send a message.” Her expression was carefully blank as she watched him settle back against the footboard of her bed. “And there are three possibilities. The first is that they were attempting to send a message to me, through you.”

“Nope. They would have come after me.”

“You are significantly better protected than your daughter.”

“Will they go after Stephen?”

“I've already seen to that.” Mycroft wasn't surprised that she didn't thank him. As he continued, her expression became progressively darker and Mycroft wondered if now was really the time to be having this conversation. “Another possibility is that they were attempting to intimidate you for some reason. Perhaps to drive us apart.” Her obvious doubt mirrored his own on the matter. “I agree. Unless you know of anyone who would have concerns about us becoming closer. Appearing to become closer.”

She shook her head. “Other than Blythe, no. No one I know cares other than Harry, and he's thrilled, I think.” 

Mycroft thought that avenue best left unexplored at the moment. “The other possibility is that the intended recipient of this supposed message was your ex-husband.”

Christina didn't react other than to stare into space over his right shoulder as she appeared to give the suggestion serious thought. “Someone thinks he made a deal with MI5.” 

Mycroft smiled, glad to see that she got there on her own, saving him the necessity of explanation. They watched each other, silent, and Mycroft wondered how long she would manage to hold out before breaking cover.

“Promise me.”

 _Three seconds, apparently_. “Promise you what?” he asked, though he knew what her demand would be.

“That you'll get him.”

“You know I cannot—”

“You promise me you'll get them, whoever tried to murder my child for _leverage_ , Mycroft. Who murdered my friends' child _for leverage_.”

“I cannot promise anything, Christina. You know that.”

She glared across the bed at him. “Fine.” An answer which Mycroft knew really meant, “Fine, then, I'll hunt him down and quite possibly get myself killed in the process, ta very much.”

He watched her glower at him for a few more seconds before her ire began to fade. Eventually she rubbed her face with her hands and he knew the outburst was over. 

“Were you planning to spend the night? You probably should.”

Mycroft paused, taken aback at the sudden change of direction. Her dismissal was clear and he suspected she'd done so because she wanted to give more thought to the possible fall-out from recent events, free from his scrutiny. “You're right, I should.” He pulled out his mobile and sent texts to Andrea, Mrs White and Peterson.

When he realised there wasn't going to be any extrapolation from her original conclusions about Moran, Mycroft resisted the urge to push her to open up further. He needed to play her very carefully as long as the situation with her daughter was at the forefront of her mind. Whoever had attacked the girl had (unintentionally, Mycroft was sure) given him a golden opportunity to bind Christina more firmly to his side. He gave her a brief, thin smile and stood. “I will see you in the morning.”

“Not if you're out of here at seven, you won't.”

Mycroft gave her a slightly more authentic smile at the modest attempt at a joke. As he departed, she crawled back under her duvet. At the door, he stopped, but did not turn back to her. “Christina. I am so very sorry about what has happened. If I'd had even the slightest suspicion anything like this would—”

He heard a blunt, muffled “Thank you,” from behind him; he nodded more to himself than her, and left for the guest room.

~ + ~

Mycroft woke to Christina gently stroking his arm.

“Oh, good, just a nightmare. I thought you were having a fit for a second there.”

He was disorientated from the dream and waking so quickly; she was crouched next to the bed, which was unnerving enough on its own. It took him a moment to remember why he was there and he was glad for the room's darkness, because he knew his expression was one he wouldn't want her to see.

While Mycroft tried to clear the residue of the nightmare from his mind, he wondered how loud he must have been for her to have heard him across the entire house. Christina went to the bathroom and returned with a glass of water. After handing it to him, she perched on the other side of the bed, turning away to give him some privacy to collect himself. By the time he'd finished the water his hands had stopped shaking from the return of his nightmare of Sherlock's death and he could turn his attention to Christina. 

She was silhouetted against the faint light from the street coming through the curtains, and while her back was to him, he could see by the set of her shoulders she was exhausted. Thin light fell across her shoulders and outlined the curves of her neck and cheekbone, but he couldn't discern her expression. 

“When was I targeted?” she asked quietly as she raised one knee on the bed and clasped it loosely.

It took him a few seconds to catch up. “We’re having this conversation now?” 

“We have to eventually, don't we? And I can't imagine either of us will be getting any more sleep tonight.”

Mycroft had to admit a sliver of admiration for her timing. He was in an unfamiliar environment, groggy and sleep deprived. He was upset from his nightmare, and she knew to approach him when he was vulnerable. Though she had no training in interrogation, her instincts were admirable, even if she was likely unaware that she even had them. “Before you first came to England. Perhaps 1990. I'm not sure.”

She grimaced. “So it was Larry. I've always wondered.”

Mycroft paused before answering. He couldn't imagine the pain of having that betrayal finally confirmed. Her favourite uncle, the man she considered to be the true father of her heart, had knowingly led her into a life of servitude that she'd despised for two decades. “He was very concerned you not fall under the control of the Americans.”

“Which is why he advised I go for the Rhodes instead of MIT.” She nodded and looked away from him, making a faint humming sound Mycroft couldn't interpret. “Where was the connection?”

“He works in counter-terrorism; he was acquainted with people who knew other people. You know how it works.”

“When did you join this little enterprise?”

He tried not to flinch at her caustic tone. “Davidson.”

“Ah.” She paused and turned back to the window. “You were being tested.”

“Yes, and I failed. Spectacularly.” 

“You guys got me in the end, though.”

“In a way, I suppose.”

Mycroft could tell by the momentary roll of her shoulders that she'd bitten off a laugh. “And Moran was your back-up plan.”

“Not in the least. From our perspective, your marriage was little short of a disaster.”

“But it kept me in England, so all wasn't lost. From your perspective, I mean.”

“There was that.”

“And now I'm back in MI5's plans you're being forced to sacrifice yourself for England again, until you find someone else to fob me off on. Poor Mycroft.”

“That is not what this is about and you know it.” He was both chastened and annoyed by her bitterness. “I also know you understand that none of us has any real freedom of movement in this matter.”

She considered that for a few seconds while Mycroft felt his mind regain its bearings after his nightmare. He hadn't expected an interrogation, though now that he gave the matter a moment's thought he realised he should have known it was bound to come. His relief at her compliance with his plan had made him inexcusably sloppy. He'd allowed himself to ignore the hovering, unresolved issues of their past with the expectation that she would continue to ignore them as well.

When she replied, he was surprised to hear her bitterness gone, replaced by an exhausted resignation. “I don't know if I should pity you or not. I mean, you caged yourself into this life of your own free will. You knew the price and still chose it. But you can leave whenever you like.”

“You overestimate my ability to walk away.”

“Oh, so you're a Prisoner, too?” It was obvious that she had been trying for withering sarcasm, but lacked the venom to pull it off. “But no one gave you away like some prize cow, hoping the new owners wouldn't abuse it too much but not really bothering to care.”

“Your uncle cares a great deal about your welfare.”

“Oh, god. Of course you two discussed my 'welfare' at great length, didn't you? Spectacular.” The last word was a quiet epithet as she turned her back to him again. Mycroft waited while the tension in the room dissipated a little. His understanding was that a number of people had been involved in the decision to try to keep her in Britain twenty-three years before, and he still agreed with her uncle's assessment that it had been the best solution for Christina. He couldn't understand why she refused to see that.

Mycroft knew that if she had come under the control of the Americans back then, she wouldn't have been allowed anywhere near as much freedom as she'd had in Britain. “All things considered, you've been given remarkable leeway.”

“Because once they'd lost their investment in my crypto work, the SIS thought they could use me to spy on Sebastian. Pity they never bothered to tell me that was going to be the price for my freedom. If they had I might have paid attention to what the bastard was doing, and none of this nonsense with Blythe would be happening.”

Mycroft couldn't argue that point, though he wondered at her apparent change of heart after spending five weeks refusing to discuss her ex-husband. He had assumed from the beginning that the realities of her situation would continue to be the great taboo, never to be acknowledged. Perhaps she had always assumed that Mycroft already knew. Or worse, perhaps she had always thought they had been his idea.

~ + ~

**Monday, February 16**

After an awkward early morning at Christina's, which had featured Mrs White sending him a change of clothing via Peterson (who had been amused by Christina insisting on making him breakfast while he waited), Mycroft launched himself into a new week even more exhausted than he had been at the end of the previous one. Halfway to Whitehall, he received a call from Lestrade.

“Yes, Chief Inspector.”

“Yeah, morning.”

“You have information on the Moran girl's case, I presume. Or is Sherlock up to his tricks again?”

“No, not Sherlock. Essex Police found the car yesterday. Actually, the fire brigade found it Saturday morning, but it took everyone thirty hours to connect it all up. Whoever stole it hid it in a barn before torching it. It wasn't until the farmer told them he hadn't had a car parked in there that they started to put two and two together. They thought it was just a random arson.”

“You now have confirmation the vehicle was stolen?”

“Yeah, the owner was in Cape Town on business; got home yesterday afternoon and reported it stolen then.”

“So the culprit knew the vehicle's owner, and that they would be away and the theft not reported until after the attack.”

“Most likely. We're looking into that. But considering what came up when we ran the owner's name, we'd be looking for the proverbial needle. It'd be easier to find a friend of his who _hasn't_ done serious time.”

“Thank you for keeping me apprised, Lestrade.”

“No problem. How's the mother doing?”

“About as well as can be expected.”

“Okay. I'll let you go, then.”

Mycroft rang off and pondered this new information for the rest of the journey to the office. 

Over the course of the day, he kept himself awake through a string of meetings by reviewing the weekend's events. He saw now that they put a new spin on some of the ideas that had been simmering away at the back of his mind for the last few weeks while he'd been forced by others to focus on trivialities. He was disturbed by some of the implications that were rising to the surface, like scum on over-boiled soup.

For almost three weeks, Mycroft had been waiting for a response to his stepping into what most people likely thought of as territory not his to traverse: the Moran case and Christina's role in it. And there had been no counter-move yet against Mycroft's overtures to Pollay. The lack of any observable response wasn't unexpected; Mycroft knew that Blythe would bide his time before striking back. Then there was the matter of the oh-so-secret CCTV footage that had mysteriously appeared four hours after Mycroft and Christina's evening at Covent Garden.

And now this. This horrific escalation of hostilities from meeting room swordplay to the death of one seventeen year-old girl and the serious injury of another, neither of whom were the intended target. Siobhan Moran had been the only victim to walk away from the accident and Mycroft wondered if that had been part of the culprit's plan, sloppiness, or just a sociopathic unconcern.

From the moment he'd first heard of the attack, Mycroft had convinced himself that Blythe couldn't be involved. But Mycroft knew that preconceptions were never a constructive starting point for analysis, so he allowed himself to give due consideration to what Blythe's motives might be for such an extraordinary act. On the other hand, Mycroft couldn't help but speculate about the mysterious other who had been lurking in the background since the New Year. The timing of the events, from the first “Moriarty video” through to the attack on the Moran girl and her friends, spoke of an unholy alliance between someone quite possibly associated with James Moriarty (or someone who wanted the SIS to believe he was) and someone with access to top-level domestic intelligence. 

Even though Mycroft had nothing beyond speculation to point to Blythe's possible involvement, he allowed his mind to pursue the matter. There were other perfectly logical possibilities—there always were—and he needed to ensure he gave them as much attention as the allure of a possibly rogue (and therefore vulnerable) Edwin Blythe.

One possibility: someone had been tremendously indiscreet about Sherlock's mission to a friend, lover, family member—someone compromised—who passed this information directly or indirectly to the creator of the “Moriarty” video. The responsible party was someone who wanted Blythe and Mycroft to take each other down and step in as replacement. But Mycroft couldn't think of any feasible candidates for this unknown third bureaucratic mastermind.

Another possibility: either Lady Smallwood or the Home Secretary was using Mycroft and Sherlock as pawns in some game or other that Mycroft knew nothing about. But such a scheme was out of character for both women, neither of whom had ever shown inclinations of that nature. And if they had, Mycroft would have discovered this years ago and already neutralised them.

So all Mycroft had were logic and his suspicions until he had some sort of external corroboration or hard evidence pointing the finger at Blythe. And Mycroft knew any assertion he made without cast-iron proof would be suspect, seen as a personal vendetta driven by desperation arising from his and Sherlock's situations.

For a moment or two Mycroft almost wished he were the sort of man to fly into rages or wallow in self-pity. Because at that moment he felt the need for some sort of release. While he knew that the slow-rising burn of rage at the core of him was entirely justified, it was far from an adequately cathartic response to his decades of sterling service to the British government being dismissed and considered suspect. His professional judgement had been called into question, all because he had persistently refused to abandon his obsessive, wayward brother. And now his brother had finally dragged Mycroft into the shadows with him, despite Mycroft's best efforts.

But after years of conflict, Mycroft's personal and professional goals were in complete accord. If Blythe _were_ going rogue, taking him down was necessary for the security of Britain; removing one of the current threats to Sherlock's safety would be a secondary (but not by much) benefit. And if removing Blythe from the cast of players were going to happen, it had to happen soon, before Sherlock's reputation was irredeemably damaged, and Mycroft unable to manoeuvre a way out for them both.

But to accomplish this, Mycroft needed access to information located in a place he couldn't currently go: America.

The ball was definitely in his court. Thankfully, the scale of the previous play freed him from any qualms about political niceties. Whoever had arranged the attack Friday night had changed the nature of the prize, and now they were all fighting with the metaphorical gloves off.

Mycroft knew that nibbling around the edges of Blythe's empire—as he had done with subverting Pollay—would not suffice. His only possible response was to strike against the heart of Blythe's power, and that meant Mycroft had only one possible target: the Foreign Office.

~ + ~

**Wednesday, February 18**

Wednesday began with Mycroft's first significant regret of the day: he'd allowed himself to skip reviewing Mrs Fraser's surveillance reports the evening before. It was fate that decreed he did so on a day when Sherlock was acting an idiot. Based on what he read of his brother's activities the day and night before, Mycroft knew there was no point in attempting to contact Sherlock before noon. So he took a deep breath and put the matter aside in order to referee two minor crises in his office, untangle a diplomatic tiff, and head off a cat fight between two British MEPs that threatened to escalate to hair pulling on the floor of the Brussels Parliament. 

Some days he felt like a glorified nanny.

As the clock on his computer turned over to 12.00, Mycroft pulled out his mobile. It took only five calls for his brother to pick up and Mycroft could tell from the fact he was able to get the first word in that Sherlock had been asleep.

“Good afternoon, little brother.”

“It's morning, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied and by the short pause and annoyance Mycroft felt flowing over the airwaves he knew Sherlock had just checked the time: 12.01 pm.

Best get stuck right in, Mycroft thought as he dove into the gap in the conversation before Sherlock could. “I'd make some trite enquiry as to your wellbeing, but we both know that's not the reason for my call.”

“Of course not, as you have no concern for anyone's wellbeing but your own.”

So far, so expected. The requisite opening salvoes fired, Mycroft launched into his plan to let Sherlock know he was heading in the right direction on the “Moriarty” case. “As you keep insisting. The reason for my call is to ask you to cease harassing Christina Martin. I thought it had been made clear to you—”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, 'why'?”

“Why should I not speak to her? And I wasn't 'harassing' her. I just asked to speak to her about a case I'm investigating. She said no, so I hung up. Where in that sequence of events has 'harassment' taken place?”

 _Oh, well done. Pretend it's about the cold cases._ “You will leave her alone, Sherlock. She has nothing whatsoever to do with any case you're investigating. Including the cold cases Lestrade gave you.” And now we can discuss the actual matter in hand, Mycroft added in his mind.

“Well, you know what the solution to that is. Give me the data I need yourself.”

Mycroft sighed, because he knew Sherlock and whoever might be listening in would expect him to do so at that point in their “argument”. Then he pulled out their standard playbook and initiated the expected blocking sequence. “As I've told you before, Sherlock, I have no data to give you. And as she has nothing to give you either, you will leave Christina alone.”

Mycroft secretly smiled, wondering if Blythe would pick up that message when he eventually saw the transcript of their conversation.

“Oh, will I? I see your sticky fingerprints on everything, everywhere I look, Mycroft, every block and barricade I run into. Are you afraid I might solve it before you? And you call _me_ childish. No, I will not leave her alone until you do your damned job and help me. And why do you care if I talk to her?”

And then Mycroft knew that Sherlock had seen behind all of Blythe's ridiculous and unnecessary subterfuge and received Deborah Oppenheimer's message about Moran. “Oh for heaven's sake, Sherlock. Your paranoia is really most disturbing. Of course I'm not trying to impede your work on the Moriarty case; it would hardly be in my interest to do so. But Christina is still quite upset by what happened to her daughter this past weekend and I will not have you upset her further. Do you understand?” _Do you understand that I need you to stop allowing yourself to be distracted by trivialities?_

He heard Sherlock draw a breath and knew one of his brother's trademark rants was about to come cascading down the line. “Have you been demoted back to field work, Mycroft? That fat arse of yours still smarting from the spanking you've received from the higher-ups? That must be quite the fall you've had; I can't imagine why you haven't broken your neck. Or it is just you've found yourself a goldfish? How quaint!”

Mycroft realised he should have known Sherlock would eventually take the fight in that direction. A fruitless waste of time. “Sherlock, really—”

“You're the one who compared your associates to goldfish. Have you decided to take one home? To be honest, I'm surprised at your choice. Not at all what—”

“Oh grow up, Sherlock.” Mycroft didn't need to fake his irritation as he snapped back. For years he'd been looking forward to the day when Sherlock might overcome his neuroses around women and just lose his virginity so that he could stop being an ass about the fact that other people might have had sex at some point in their lives. He wondered how Sherlock thought the Watsons had managed to have a child. Like spawning salmon, perhaps?

“Fine words coming from you, brother. Does she know about you? Your _predilections_?”

 _Predilections?_ Had they suddenly been transported back to the 1950s? Sherlock was the only person under ninety years of age who would refer to anything as a _predilection_. It was the most Mycroft could do not to laugh, but he maintained his mask of fake annoyance as he replied, “Christina is an old friend—”

“You don't have friends, Mycroft. You said so yourself.”

Oh, the spite! Like a schoolyard bully, Mycroft suddenly realised. As if Mycroft were not allowed to have friends, because if he did Sherlock might have to acknowledge being incorrect about something. “Do you think so? Perhaps you should recall the scene from your 'memory palace'. You've never been very attentive when others are speaking, Sherlock. It has always been one of your greatest weaknesses.”

“Mycroft—”

“And yes, Christina qualifies as a friend. Now, leave her alone.” He ensured his tone was forceful enough that when he had to respond to Sherlock's next protest, he would be able to feign exhaustion.

“Or what?”

“Oh, for— Sherlock, I know why you're pursuing her. Just. Leave her alone. She does not know anything.” Mycroft wondered just how obvious he had to be to divert Sherlock's attention from Christina to Moran. It was worrying how obstreperous Sherlock was being. Mycroft wondered if he really had not understood Oppenheimer's message, and if Sherlock believed that Christina was the real target his handler had sent him after.

“She's been very well briefed.”

Mycroft laughed, at Sherlock's petulance as much as the idea of Christina acting to anyone's orders. “Trust me on this if nothing else. Christina takes no lead from me or anyone else. Nor do I fear for her safety from your questions. She's well able to look after herself.”

“So why the 'friendly' call?”

And now for the final act of this particular performance, Mycroft thought. “Because you're being a pest, to someone who does not deserve it. While she's perfectly capable of making you feel the back of her hand, so to speak, it would upset her to have to do so. She has more important worries now and you have no right to add to them.” _And the last thing I need is you torpedoing my plan by deducing our charade and blabbing it all to Deborah Oppenheimer_ , Mycroft added in his head.

He waited with growing curiosity for Sherlock's response. When it came (“How is her daughter?”), Mycroft was surprised that Sherlock thought a show of compassion would sway him. But then, he'd just spent five minutes trying to convince his brother that Christina was a friend; even if that had been true, though, Sherlock had to know that such a tactic would not work on Mycroft. Regardless, he had to stick to his line until Sherlock finally caught on to the message behind Mycroft's words without tipping off his MI5 surveillance. “Recovering at home. She is, of course, most upset at the death of her friend. And the third girl is facing a number of surgeries, I believe. Quite enough for a seventeen-year-old to cope with, don't you think?”

“Why are you so involved? You never get involved in other people's lives. Well, except mine, the one person who wants you to just bugger off.”

“And yet here you are, begging for my help and interfering in the life of one of my oldest friends. And I wouldn't have to be involved in your life if you weren't constantly forcing me to by your childish, self-destructive behaviour.” _There you go, Sherlock. You insisted on taking it into the realm of the personal; it's your own fault if you aren't spared._

“You aren't pretending to be interested in her, are you? That would be remarkably cruel, even for you.”

Mycroft suddenly went very still, called on the carpet for the very tactic he had led with in approaching Christina. It had failed, but only because she seemed to possess a degree of cynicism worthy of a Holmes. “Where did you get that frankly insane idea? Really, Sherlock, you need to get a grip on yourself. Why would anyone do such a thing?”

“You know she has information about a connection between her ex-husband and Moriarty. And you're trying to seduce it out of her. Oh my god, Mycroft. What a vicious little sod you are.”

Thank you very much, Sherlock, Mycroft mused. Not that Blythe was incapable of guessing that that was Mycroft's motivation for “pursuing” Christina, but he wasn't happy with the prospect of having to discuss it with his brother. When he replied, Mycroft ensured his tones were the most pompous affection of feigned boredom he could muster. “These pathetic delusions of yours do you no favours. You need to focus on acquiring real data relating to this case. I thought that was your speciality, ferreting out information that others can't.”

The quick intake of breath he heard from the other end of the line told Mycroft that Sherlock had taken it, hook, line, sinker, and half the rod. But Mycroft thought it best to shove the rest of it down his brother's throat, down to the reel if he had to, just to ensure there was no possible chance of a misunderstanding. “So for all our sakes, leave Christina _and her family_ alone,” Mycroft continued. “You're wasting your time pursuing that avenue. Again, do I make myself clear?”

“Oh, you always make yourself clear. You're just wasting your breath, as usual.”

Mycroft felt Sherlock's tone almost scour the surface of his skin with its astringency. “Sherlock—”

And then the line went dead. Sherlock had rung off, as he so often did. As anyone listening in would expect Sherlock to do after an argument with his overbearing older brother. All in all, Mycroft thought it had gone as well as he could have expected, and he was sure his message was received. For a moment he contemplated briefing Christina on the plan, but then decided against it. He knew her natural inclinations were in line with what he wanted her to do anyway, so there was no point in bothering her with the details. Mycroft hadn't been lying to Sherlock when he'd said she could defend herself. Just as he knew that now his brother was pointed in the right direction, he would end up finding what he needed. If, indeed, the information even existed. 

~ + ~

**Thursday, February 19**

To Mycroft's annoyance, Lady Smallwood moved their weekly meeting again, and he had to reorganise his agenda to accommodate her. He sometimes whiled away time in his more boring meetings speculating on what would happen if _he_ were to decide to cut his week short and force everyone else to scramble, for once.

When he arrived at her office, she at least looked contrite. “I am terribly sorry about the short notice. An issue has arisen in probate and my lawyer is demanding a meeting tomorrow morning.” 

“Of course. These things happen.” He sat in his customary chair, crossed his legs and looked at her expectantly. “Was there anything in particular you wished to discuss that couldn't wait until next week?”

“I was wondering how Christina was faring. You've been in contact, I assume.”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft ensured he sounded slightly offended, as if she were accusing him of being an insensitive cad who wouldn't rush to the side of his “girlfriend” in her moment of familial crisis. Though he did wonder why she didn't just call Christina herself; they were hardly strangers, after all. “She is coping about as well as can be expected.”

“Good, good.” She paused and Mycroft had a premonition they were about to have another horrifying conversation like the one where he had been given this ridiculous assignment. The thought leapt into his mind that the woman might start questioning him about the more intimate details of his and Christina's charade and it was the most Mycroft could do to keep the alarm off his face. After ten seconds of staring at her hands, Lady Smallwood looked him in the eye again and asked, “What affect do you think this will have on her willingness to cooperate with the investigation into her ex-husband?”

Mycroft couldn't restrain his eyebrows at that question. As much as anything, he was surprised that the woman had just come out and asked, rather than her usual leisurely glide up to the point. “Were Siobhan Moran and her friends targeted in order to make her mother more likely to ally herself to us?”

Lady Smallwood sat back in her chair looking as though she wanted to strike him. “Absolutely not. We all have our suspicions as to who was responsible. But I can assure you, I would never have allowed such a mission to go forward.”

 _Because we only kill children in foreign parts._ “Sometimes we're better served by good luck than good management.” He paused to contemplate the woman's reaction to what seemed to him to be a perfectly obvious question.

“Yes. And we are sending out some feelers on that matter.”

“And am I to pursue that as well, as part of the other project?”

“Not at the moment. If he thinks that there is a murder investigation in his future he'll be spooked and scamper off home.”

 _Aha._ It was another tiny step toward confirmation of Mycroft's assumptions, though he couldn't yet be sure if it was a slip of the tongue, a red herring, or a purposeful hint. “Of course.”

“We have people looking into it. “ She gave him a weighty look. “Very good people.”

He gave her a faint smile. “Very well, then.” 

For a fleeting moment Mycroft thought she might mean that Sherlock had been assigned the investigation. That certainly would have explained Sherlock's contacting Christina in the first place. But if that had been the case, why would he not have told Mycroft that? Other than Sherlock's knee-jerk response, denying Mycroft any kind of information whatsoever about what he was doing.

Lady Smallwood watched him for the second or two that Mycroft required to process that new data. As he watched her back, he couldn't help but notice how exhausted she looked. Considering her role in tossing him into the middle of the Moran mess, he was loath to extend her any sympathy; the assignment certainly hadn't done his sleep schedule any good.

“I understand your brother's friend at the Met has been keeping you up-to-date on developments.”

Mycroft thought that statement was a not very well-veiled warning; not that he hadn't been aware from the beginning of the risks of involving Lestrade, but it was good to be told that people had noticed. He acknowledged the information with a slight nod. “And what is the opinion of our brethren regarding the possible motives behind the attack?” 

Her initial reply was an expression that was eerily reminiscent of Christina's “Stop treating me like an idiot,” look, before she moved on to a warning. “I thought the Prime Minister's—”

“With all due respect, ma'am, the day the Prime Minister can effectively threaten me is the day I resign and turn my hand to gardening. Bee keeping. Anything, really, that does not involve pandering to the delusions of self-important half-wits.”

She chuckled and he was glad to see a momentary lifting of her mood. “You're planning on becoming a hermit in your retirement?”

Mycroft allowed a dreamy expression to cross his face as he contemplated the promise of glorious peace and quiet. “Yes.”

“If it's a peaceful life you're looking for, then hanging around the edges of an ongoing MI5 investigation is not the way to be going about it.”

“Might I remind you who was responsible for shoving me onto that particular field of play? Do you expect me to just walk away from it, because someone unknown has decided to raise the stakes? How does that help anyone?” _How does that help Sherlock?_

She was a little chastened, Mycroft was glad to see. For a woman reputed to possess above average intelligence, she sometimes could be remarkably obtuse, as well as conveniently forgetful.

When they had each regained their usual composure, Mycroft added, quietly, “Has Sir Edwin mentioned any progress they might have made? Or have his 'very good people' run out of ideas already?”

“He's not mentioned anything of note.”

 _Like he overlooked mentioning the CCTV footage from Tottenham Court Road._ “The disposal of the vehicle gives every indication that it was a professional job.”

She gave him an owlish look. “Yes, I suppose so. But there's never been any evidence that Moran played with amateurs, so it's hardly unexpected.”

“You believe the purpose of the attack was to send a message to him?”

“It's the most likely explanation, don't you think?”

“Perhaps. Who, though?” When she didn't reply, he continued. “And most interesting timing. Just as the Moran case was becoming a priority again.”

“It's never really gone away.”

“Not while they're holding him illegally, no.”

“I'm well aware of your opinions regarding coincidences, Mycroft. But I would hate to see you abandon your usual rigour in regards to evidence.”

The woman was becoming slightly agitated, so Mycroft knew he was on the right track. But she was no Pollay; Mycroft would have to place his next steps carefully to avoid falling into quicksand. Before he could continue, though, she rose and picked up her coat and briefcase. Apparently, the meeting was over.

“Good afternoon, Mycroft. Please give my regards to Christina.”

“Good afternoon. And I will.”

He followed her as she trudged out the door, moving like a woman twenty years older, and he wondered if she would ever recover from her husband's death. He felt a strange, uncomfortable rise of some sort of emotion at the sight. Was it protectiveness, he wondered. He hoped not; the last thing he needed was someone else to look after.

~ + ~

**Friday, February 20**

To Mycroft's surprise, Christina called him in the afternoon and proposed they meet for dinner. As he rang off, he decided she just wanted an update on the investigation of the attack; they were both aware that they had performed more than enough maintenance on their current fiction, even taking into account the events of the previous weekend.

That evening, to his further surprise, Christina allowed him some peace and quiet to gather his thoughts. He spent it perusing the contents of her small library as she prepared dinner. While they ate she appeared too distracted for conversation. Afterwards, as they settled down with coffee in the library, she finally began the discussion Mycroft had been expecting all evening.

“I'm assuming there haven't been any developments.”

“Not since Monday. Well, none that anyone has shared with me.”

For some reason, she seemed to find this statement amusing and Mycroft thought that said a lot about her assumptions about his position in the government, regardless of the events of the last two months.

“Have you asked Lestrade?”

“Yes. And there's been no progress, supposedly.”

“Have you spoken to Elizabeth Smallwood?”

“Yesterday. She asked how you were doing.”

Christina stared at her coffee cup for a few seconds and Mycroft wondered if her thoughts were running in the same direction as his had done that afternoon.

“Did the two of you discuss possible motives?”

“Briefly. She agrees it was most likely an attempt to send a message of some kind to Moran. Which implies that he _has_ made some sort of deal with MI5.” _Or that someone assumes he has and wants to warn Moran of the consequences of plea bargaining._

Christina paused again and Mycroft could almost smell smoke from her mental gears as they whirled away at the limits of their capacity. “What do you think the deal is?”

“I have no idea; I've never been involved in that part of the case.”

“Exactly what you would say if you did know.” She was back to one of her less friendly smiles, but Mycroft couldn't fault her for that. 

He returned hers and they sat in a silence that possessed a growing undercurrent of tension below their superficial calm. Mycroft sensed that things were coming to a head. “I assume you have thoughts on the possibilities?”

“You're asking _me_ to deduce something about an MI5 case?”

“Surely you have opinions on the matter.”

He was surprised that she appeared genuinely taken aback by the question; it had seemed an obvious one to ask. And it was time she opened up about what had happened with Moran. Mycroft needed her to answer; he had spent the week hoping the attack on her daughter and his response would lead to some thawing in relations. In his mind, he'd earned at least a little trust, but he recognised their “relationship” had reached a tipping point: either she began to trust him and began to give him some _useful_ information on Moran, or she fell back into sniping and avoidance, and more of Mycroft's precious time would be wasted until its inherent entropy pulled the enterprise apart.

Christina was making no effort to hide her calculations as she watched him; she hadn't moved—barely seemed to breathe—as she sat, extraordinarily still. Then she drew a deep breath and released it slowly.

“I thought we'd got past this asinine jousting. You want to play twenty questions, then ask me a proper one. Stop treating me like some exercise in Socratic pedagogy.”

Mycroft limited his response to a slight lightening of expression and he was pleased to see she caught it, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Did your ex-husband ever mention the name Moriarty in your presence?”

“Has MI5 taken away your copy of my file? Because if you're going to waste our time asking me the same questions Blythe did, I'm going to give you the same answers I did him. Both times.” She leant back in her chair, placed her cup on a nearby table and folded her hands in her lap. “You're supposed to be smarter than him. Surely you can come up with the _right_ questions.”

Mycroft smiled. The preliminaries were well and truly over, he thought. “Why did you abandon your research on cryptography? The true reason, not that nonsense about pregnancy and depression and waning interest.”

“Good man.” She grinned briefly before continuing. “Because I figured out that that was the reason he married me. To get access to my research.”

“For the North Koreans.”

“I don't think they were involved then; you'd have a better idea than me when they came along. But eventually, yes.”

“Do you think it was the American, Chinese or Russian governments he was working for in 1994?”

“No idea. I think he was just building up his asset base then.”

Mycroft wondered what that sensation must have been like, realising that your husband thought of you as nothing but an asset he could flog in the international espionage market. Even though she'd admitted that she and Moran had never had a romantic relationship, it must have come as a shock. Detachment, indeed, he wondered. “Sir Edwin never asked you about this?”

“No.”

Mycroft felt something short-circuit in a far corner of his brain. His relief that she was finally talking was one thing; _this_ alluded to something entirely unexpected: the possibility that her interrogations, possibly the entire Moran investigation, had been sabotaged from within MI5. A corner of Christina's mouth curled up as she saw him realise the implications. 

It was almost inconceivable that the relationship between the Morans' marriage and Sebastian Moran's espionage had never arisen in either of the two rounds of interrogation that Christina had faced. If she were telling the truth, it would indicate—what, exactly, he wondered. Astonishing incompetence? That Blythe already knew who Moran's clients were in 1994? That the question would initiate a line of inquiry that Blythe didn't want followed in her interrogation, or brought to the attention of anyone later reading the transcripts? Mycroft decided to let the point go; she wouldn't know any more about it than he did at the moment. “What was Moran's response to your abandoning your work?”

“He wasn't happy about it. But I can't say how much was disappointed ambition and how much just the marriage falling apart at the same time.”

“Would his disappointed ambitions not have been the cause of the marital breakdown?”

She shrugged. “There were personal issues, as well.”

Mycroft mentally wavered, wondering just how relevant those 'personal issues' might be. His preference was to avoid them, but he couldn't let his personal inclinations override professional responsibilities, so he girded his mental loins and resolved to dive into the murky waters of the fraudulent Moran marriage. He gave her an a questioning look. After a moment, she huffed and continued. “He had a mistress. I found out in the spring of '97, just before Siobhan was born. Not that I was surprised.”

“Why did you not divorce him then?” Being scrupulously honest with himself, Mycroft had to admit he was curious about this anomaly in her behaviour. The Christina he had known at Oxford only five years before these events would have stormed off in a fury, straight to her solicitor's office. There had to be a very good reason for her to swallow her considerable pride and continue her attachment to Moran, even if only in law.

Christina's hesitation implied that this subject was the source of some internal conflict for her, which told Mycroft that he needed to pursue the matter.

“The short answer is that the timing wasn't right.”

“And the long answer?” He paused to allow her a moment to give him what appeared to be the requisite disdainful look. “You had to know I was going to ask.”

“You don't want the long answer. I know how much you hate the messiness of real life, especially other people's.”

He knew from her expression that pushing her on that matter would just result in her digging in her heels, so he decided to set it aside for the moment. “So the decision was based on personal factors.”

“Yes. And over time we drifted further apart, anyway. When we formalised the separation in 2005, all we were doing was acknowledging the way we'd been living for years by then. But I'm not going to lie to you and say that being Lady Moran didn't help my career.”

“How did you decide on that? I can see that there's a tangential connection, but it doesn't seem an obvious choice.”

She opened her mouth as if to reply, then changed her mind. Then she shrugged. Mycroft could tell that it was another subject that would have to be deferred.

“So, sixteen months ago everything changed.”

She chuckled. “And how.”

“Suddenly the timing was right.”

“Well, your brother did rather force my hand. I'd hoped things would continue as they were until Siobhan finished school.”

“When your responsibilities in England would be largely discharged and you could return to Canada.”

She nodded. “I'd have started the transition then, anyway.”

“But why divorce Moran at all if things were organised to everyone's satisfaction already?” Mycroft had finally reached the periphery of the core issue, and he knew she would resist discussing it, but he had to nudge her along. Then she answered, as if the matter was of no importance at all.

“I had to divorce him. As long as I was married to him I'd be under suspicion. Imagine where I'd be now if I hadn't. Blythe would probably have had me in the cell next to Sebastian's for the last year and a half.”

“Yes, I understand. But you must understand that you've placed yourself in a position where it will be more difficult to defend yourself. As loath as I am to admit it, that title means something to people with influence in these matters. And giving it away as and when you did makes you suspicious in their eyes, just in a different way from Moran.”

The divorce had been a calculated risk, but Mycroft could understand why she might have been willing to take it in exchange for a chance at freedom. Taking advantage of her ex-husband's vulnerability to gain leverage in negotiating for her children's future had likely seemed too good an opportunity to pass on.

While Mycroft pondered the reasons for her timing, she had obviously had some sort of realisation, judging by the expression that appeared on her face. “Oh, you think I'm afraid of Blythe.”

“Underestimating Sir Edwin would not be wise.”

“But I can prove I had nothing to do with Sebastian's little hobbies.” 

Her tone communicated that she assumed Mycroft had always known this, but it was the first he'd heard of anything resembling evidence. In her interrogations she had steadfastly refused to answer any questions about her possible involvement. Her assertion also called into question Mycroft's belief about why she had agreed to help him. “Oh?”

“I thought you might find that interesting.” She smiled, this time her “I eat sharks for breakfast and afterwards floss with moray eels” smile. For a moment it made him nostalgic for their Oxford days. She leant forward, clenching her hands tightly together. “Like virtually everyone on the planet, Sebastian is content to use communications technology for everything, while being entirely uninterested in learning how it actually works.”

“Ah.”

“All his words, too. And all the lovely authenticating metadata. Not even I could take the forensics apart.”

“And where is all this lovely data and metadata?”

“None of your business.”

Mycroft paused, giving her a chance to indicate she might be joking, but she didn't. “You must know what my next question will be,” he eventually said. “Why have you not just presented this evidence? Why go through all this—” He made a vague gesture, indicating the universe of troubles that surrounded her.

“Because I broke about eight laws getting my hands on it. And as I am not actually working for the Intelligence services, me breaking the law will have consequences. So I'd prefer to find another way out of all this—” She mimicked his gesture. “—if I possibly can. So far I've not done too poorly.”

“Until someone decided to bring your daughter's life into play.”

“You think they're connected, too?”

Mycroft gave her a thin smile. “He's going to come after you again.”

“Of course he is, thanks to whatever _idiot_ is trying to convince people your brother's dead boyfriend is still alive.”

Mycroft couldn't help a derisive snort. Before he could reply, she continued. 

“And you think Blythe is involved in all of this somehow, don't you?”

Mycroft didn't answer right away. He'd known since the beginning of this charade that at some point he was going to have to find some way to cause her to believe that he trusted her. But her question dove into what he suspected was the heart of the web in which he was entangled, and he didn't know if his reticence was due to prudence or just a life-long habit of being secretive. There were risks to either choice, but taking his first risk had brought them to this place, so he thought another calculated one might get him through to the endgame. “There are too many coincidences. Things obviously known by people who should not. Timing. The only explanation is that someone senior in the SIS has been either extremely indiscreet or is a traitor. Events indicate that the culprit is someone attempting to undermine me.”

“And that leads you straight to Edwin Blythe.”

“Yes.”

“Or it's someone who knows you'll make Blythe your prime suspect.”

“Possibly. But I think that less likely.”

She smiled. “Mr Occam and his razor.”

He squirmed a little in his seat, inexplicably glad she'd agreed with him. “Indeed.”

They sat quietly for a minute or so, each focusing on their own thoughts, digesting their respective newly acquired data. Mycroft was happy to note the previous tension in the room was gone; he indulged himself, allowing a sense of satisfaction that this part of his plan was beginning to advance in veritable leaps and bounds.

“Why would Blythe want to bring you down? I've never understood that.”

“He wants to be the next Director of MI5 and he knows I oppose it.”

“Really?” Christina paused to stare out the window for a few moments. “Is he really that selfish?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“Shouldn't he be more concerned what the Home Secretary thinks?”

“Have you seen the recent polls? We may very well have a new government in three months.”

“And he takes advantage of the changeover to make his move. The new Home Secretary goes out of his way to ignore the current one's opinions on anything and everything.” She sighed. “Of course.”

“Ministers have much less influence on these matters than is commonly believed.”

“Democracy in action,” she replied with a wry grimace. “What does Elizabeth think of all this?”

“Lady Smallwood has always refused to see it. She believes his politicking is driven by the Foreign Secretary, his mentor and in many ways, his pawn. She is quite attached to Blythe.” Christina gave him a questioning look. “Heavens, no. Her affections are entirely maternal, let me assure you.”

“And for you, as well.”

“Yes.” He didn't bother to hide a grimace and she chuckled.

She turned to look out the window next to her. A solemn expression come over her face as she watched a pair of teenaged girls tottering down the street as they huddled under an umbrella, laughing.

“Do you think she's involved?” Christina asked, still watching the passers-by outside.

“I like to think not.” That brought Christina's attention back to him. “Of course it's a possibility. Anything is possible. But based on the available data and my knowledge of her character, I would have to say it is unlikely. She has always been scrupulous in her attempts to be even-handed with the two of us.”

“Which can be a double-edged sword, especially if one of you interprets that as favouritism for the other.”

“As has happened, I'm afraid.”

The voice in the back of Mycroft's mind grasped onto Christina's last question. Mycroft suspected that her husband's suicide had sent Elizabeth Smallwood somewhat off the rails, which was understandable considering the circumstances leading up to it. Mycroft had spent the weeks since avoiding thoughts of the possible consequences for the woman's mental and emotional state, which he now acknowledged to himself was an act of unforgivable cowardice. But there were only so many hours in the day, and his distaste for the personal, especially the emotional, combined with the all-consuming matter of Sherlock and Blythe, had allowed him to justify downgrading the importance of giving the matter the attention it deserved. 

“All the data I have points to her support for my efforts to re-establish my position. Not out of any inherent loyalty or affection; I'm useful to her. I like to think she places some value on my continuing in the role I've held for the last seven years. Though she is in a delicate position. She is close to Blythe, but I don't believe she has any particular personal loyalty to either of us. And he has been a great supporter of hers for many years.”

“He's ridden her coat tails.”

“To some degree, yes. But he has even more powerful sponsors, and they, unfortunately, do not look favourably on me.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Blythe is a man of considerable talents.”

“And no morals,” Christina interrupted.

“'Morals as most people define them have little utility in politics or the higher levels of the civil service. But I understand what you mean. He has a greed for power that I find distasteful.”

“Because it's a little too familiar?” Her tone was teasing and Mycroft decided to accept it as such. 

“I would be the first to admit to certain ambitions.” He paused and joined her in staring out the window. “But never to a lust for personal glory.”

“It's about the work.”

“Yes. And a certain level of authority facilitates the work.”

“I'll bet.” She smiled even though she wasn't looking at him. “And this is all about the work, too.”

“Of course.”

She turned to him. “Good.”

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering what Sherlock and his folks have been up to this week? Find out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/12192023).


	8. Paranoia was something that happened to other people

**Saturday, February 21**

Mycroft realised he was dreaming the moment it began. He was sitting in a blindingly white room, so brightly lit that he couldn't see where the walls met the floor or the ceiling and there was no perspective available. The space could have been ten feet square or a thousand.

The truest clue to his dream state, though, was the fact that Charles Augustus Magnussen was sitting fewer than three feet away from him. The man's usual flat, unblinking smirk was pointed in Mycroft's direction as the other man sat in a chair set at a forty-five degree angle to his.

Neither of them said anything, as if they both had been waiting patiently for a long time. Then Mycroft heard someone approach: heels clacking on the floor, suddenly appearing about ten feet behind him. There had been no other sound, no door opening and closing. Whoever it was had appeared in the room as if by magic. While he stared ahead at Magnussen, apparently transfixed, he caught a brief waft of perfume he instantly recognised—Christina's—before he caught a glimpse of her brown hair out of the corner of his right eye. She bent down and brushed the faintest kiss imaginable on his cheek before continuing past to stand in front of Magnussen.

Mycroft watched the man turn his familiar smirk to Christina. Her expression was almost entirely blank; only someone who knew her well would be able to see the curiosity in her eyes. In the dream Mycroft felt a mild unease, countered by an inexplicable lassitude.

Christina stood in front of Magnussen for thirty seconds or so, unmoving, as she stared into the man's eyes. Then she bent over slowly, as if to examine an object of interest in a shop display case. She carefully, almost tenderly, removed the man's glasses and folded the arms closed. Then, holding the glasses in one hand, she clasped her hands behind her back as she peered closer into Magnussen's eyes. Their faces were barely twelve inches apart. 

Slowly, Christina extended her right forefinger towards Magnussen's face. For a moment, Mycroft thought she was going to poke him in the eye and he wondered why the man didn't move or protest or defend himself. But then she gently lay her fingertip just above his left cheekbone, at the bottom edge of his eye-socket, and slowly pulled the skin downwards. As she did so, she moved her face closer so that their noses were almost touching, then peered intently into the man's eye, as if she were trying to see into his mind. She continued to stare, and Magnussen continued to let her, for half a minute or so. Then she stood, and carefully replaced the man's glasses on his face.

When that was done, Magnussen and Christina turned to Mycroft and gave him identical, slightly feral smiles. 

Mycroft woke with a start. He was shaking and covered in sweat, his legs tangled in the bedclothes. As he lay there, Mycroft listened for footfalls. But it appeared that the nightmare had at least been a quiet one and he hadn't disturbed Christina's sleep this time. 

For a few minutes he stared into the dark; when his breathing had returned to normal and his body had processed its rush of adrenaline, he sat up and took stock of the dream. With a quiet chuckle he acknowledged that at least it was a change from nightmares of Sherlock's overdose in an alley or demise in some Eastern European hellhole. The obvious interpretation was that his subconscious was telling him that Christina was untrustworthy, regardless of their conversation the previous evening. He was curious, though, at the manifestation of that “warning”: Magnussen. Was his mind attempting to point out a connection he hadn't noticed? That wasn't likely, unless Magnussen had been blackmailing her, and Mycroft had never come across even a hint that the man might have been. So he decided that the sterile horror was nothing more than uncharacteristic melodrama on the part of his imagination.

His phone indicated that it was 5.17 am and Mycroft wondered if he would be able to get back to sleep so close to his usual waking time. He was unexpectedly rattled, so thought it unlikely. With a sigh at another night of inadequate rest, he pulled on his dressing gown and headed for the kitchen.

While he waited for the kettle to boil, he examined the family snaps Christina had posted on the front of her refrigerator. A younger Christina holding a boy about four years old on the back of a pony. Her and Moran, both smiling towards the photographer, obviously at some formal event early in their marriage, based on their dress and apparent ages. Mycroft had never given any thought to the personal aspects of Christina's past, her life, and the relationships that had influenced it. He knew this was really not his area, this alien _ordinariness_. Sitting at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, waiting for his tea to steep, he looked around and indulged in speculation on what his life would have been like if he had been different. If he had been capable of caring, of suffocating his intelligence in the detritus of everyday life, as she so obviously had. Could he have had a life like hers, a home like this? After a few seconds he stopped himself. His exhaustion was making him maudlin and silly. 

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and was almost disappointed to see that there were no critical matters for him to address. He couldn't remember the last time that had happened, and was surprised to feel a hint of wistfulness for the days when he was constantly pestered by idiots clamouring for him to fix their brainless cock-ups. 

As he looked ahead to his plans for the rest of the weekend, he knew that by the end of it he would be even more exhausted, irritated and probably frustrated. So he picked up his teacup and headed through the dark, silent house to Christina's library and the dog-eared volume of Dante he'd noticed there on his last visit.

~ + ~

**Sunday, February 22**

When Robin Blenner-Hassett had called Mycroft on Thursday and suggested they meet for dinner, Mycroft had instantly gone on alert. His refusal to countenance the existence of coincidences, combined with the fact that Blenner-Hassettt was next on Mycroft list of targets, had sent him into a short fit of—well, not paranoia, because paranoia was something that happened to other people—frenzied analysis. The situation concerned him. And he began to wonder if he'd somehow lost his knack for adamantine secrecy, or if Blenner-Hassett had overnight become much more insightful and had deduced Mycroft's intentions.

Regardless of how it had come to pass, Mycroft found himself sitting across from the man, at a small table, tucked into a private corner of a restaurant that hadn't been fashionable since their brief flirtation thirteen years before. Mycroft wondered if the choice of location was supposed to elicit an ameliorative nostalgia; in fact, it just made him feel about a million years old and full of regrets.

As they progressed through the courses of their mediocre meal, Mycroft wondered why the man had called him. Why _specifically_ ; it was obvious that in general the conversation was going to turn to the Blythe/“Moriarty”/Moran/whoever next situation. But Mycroft hoped that Blenner-Hassett plucked up the courage and just asked for what he wanted from him. He was exhausted and had no patience for games that evening.

Mycroft knew he had to be careful, though. As one of the Foreign Secretary's principal flunkies, Blenner-Hassett had a certain amount of pull in the Foreign Office. And Mycroft needed to ensure he kept the man amenable—or at least not actually hostile—to the idea of helping Mycroft in regards to Blythe.

After Blenner-Hassett opened the conversation with an apology for his demeanour at the meeting where the American Intelligence Committee report had been discussed, the conversation rapidly deteriorated. The other man's attempts to verbally dance around the reason why he had wanted to meet had Mycroft bored almost to narcolepsy within an hour. 

As they waited for their coffees, Mycroft realised that Blenner-Hassett might possibly, if viewed from a certain angle, be making a ham-fisted pass at him. The thought hadn't occurred that this might be the approach the man would take. It took Mycroft a few seconds to remember the last time someone had been stupid or delusional enough to think that dangling the prospect of sex in front of him might make him lose his perspective. If that was the case now, either Mycroft's efforts to pass off his “relationship” with Christina were a dismal failure, or Blenner-Hassett thought that Mycroft was the sort of man to cheat. After all, Blenner-Hassett himself had always been a bit of a tart; it would be just like him to assume everyone else shared his failings.

Mycroft decided to ignore what he interpreted as Blenner-Hassett having some sort of breakdown in taste or self-awareness, but in the end the other man decided to go the tradition route and laid hands on.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. “I know that you're aware of the fact that I am, as they say, 'taken'.”

Blenner-Hassett chuckled in what he probably thought was a seductive manner but which caused Mycroft to lean away from him. “As if you would ever allow that. And no, I have no interest in your dabbling with the former Lady Moran, though I don't think anyone who knows you would have seen that coming.”

“Anyone who claims to know me would know that we saw quite a bit of each other the year we overlapped at Oxford.”

“I'm even more glad I was at Cambridge, then, if they let people like that into Oxford.”

“Yes, where her two best friends were Harry Abernathy and the current Governor of the Bank of England.” 

Mycroft amused himself with imagining Blenner-Hassett's five brain cells buzzing around like angry hornets at being simultaneously shown up and turned down. “Could we perhaps dispense with the dull, unnecessary preliminaries?” Mycroft asked. _And discuss what exactly it is you were hoping to purchase with your middling-grade favours, without my having to go through the bother of pretending to want them,_ he added in his mind. For a moment, Mycroft wondered if he had gone a bit too far; he needed to maintain the appropriate balance between not alienating the man, while ensuring he never forgot what was his place in the scheme of things.

Blenner-Hassett glanced around them at the half-empty restaurant. “Perhaps somewhere more private—?”

Mycroft mirrored his examination of the other diners. There was no one in the room he recognised, and none of them were paying even covert attention to them. “This should be fine. Why, were you planning to expand your repertoire of indiscretions?”

As Blenner-Hassett settled back into his chair, Mycroft thought that might have been a bit much. But then the other man's demeanour shifted in a moment from flirtatious to entirely businesslike, and Mycroft knew that his instincts had been correct on that point. “I realised something the other day.”

Mycroft spun his coffee cup in its saucer; his heart sank at the idea of the personal revelation he was sure was coming. But he needed to keep the man talking, in case he revealed something useful. “And what was that?”

“As of Monday, I'd been at the Foreign Office for exactly twenty-five years.”

“Congratulations.”

“The last eleven of them in the same position.”

Mycroft knew where the conversation was going, now. And it was a relief to realise Blenner-Hassett wasn't going to be revisiting the details of their brief, rather sordid, past together. “Well, as you know, the higher you go, the less room there is for advancement.”

“Says the man who made it to the top of the heap.”

Mycroft gave him a thin, frosty smile. “I wouldn't go so far as to say that.”

“Not now, I suppose. But before your brother—”

“B-H—” Mycroft started, in warning tones.

“—did what he did. It must be difficult for you. Being on the downward slope of the hill, after that long climb to the top. Twenty years of shoving everyone in front of you over the cliff—”

“I prefer to think of it as building a hill of my own, rather than climbing someone else's.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“You've decided to branch out into career counselling?”

Blenner-Hassett stopped, startled, then laughed. “No, no, of course not. The other realisation I had last week was that you and I share a goal.”

“I'm sure we share many goals.”

“Personal goals.”

The man's over-familiar tones set Mycroft's teeth on edge. It had been only four nights, thirteen years ago. There was no legitimate reason on Earth for the man to think he could presume on Mycroft's goodwill in this manner, but he bit back the verbal slap he wanted to administer and pretended to take the bait that was dangling in front of him. “And what particular goal are you referring to?”

“Taking Blythe down a peg or two.”

“What makes you think I want that?”

“Well, if you don't you're not the man you used to be.” The coy smile was back. 

_If you think I'll fall for that, B-H, you didn't know the man I used to be. Even less the man I am now._ Mycroft let him see his disdain for a second, though he wasn't sure if the other man had the ability to interpret it correctly.

“Come on, Mycroft. He's been after your job for years. You can't tell me you don't want to get rid of him.”

“Sir Edwin has provided exceptional service to the British government for decades. Do you think me so selfish as to want to dispose of that for my own sake?”

“Fine, play it that way, then.”

Mycroft gave him a bored sigh, as if he were just humouring the man. “Why do you want rid of him?” he asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer. For years he had watched the man's covetous, jealous reaction every time one of the string of Foreign Secretaries he'd served picked a new favourite; B-H had never been much good at hiding his belief that it should have been him.

Mycroft received an owlish look in reply and he wondered if the man had truly thought Mycroft wouldn't ask. Then he seemed to pull himself together a bit. “MI5 has no place in the Foreign Office.”

“ _MI5_ does not have a place in the Foreign Office.”

Blenner-Hassett gave him a sarcastic scowl; as Mycroft watched, amused, the expression cleared when the pin finally dropped and the man caught the meaning of Mycroft's response. “Point taken. I've always wondered if the Director of MI5 is as much a beneficiary of Sir Edwin's time and attention as the Foreign Secretary.”

“I really could not say.”

“I doubt that very much.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I cannot accept responsibility for your erroneous preconceptions.”

“Not preconceptions. I've got eyes.”

 _Yes, you see but you do not observe, as Sherlock is so fond of saying._ “So your objections are administrative, rather than personal?”

Blenner-Hassett looked scandalised, and Mycroft didn't know whether it was because he'd implied the man was driven by the same greed and narcissism as other ordinary people, or that he'd been caught out exposing himself as such. “Of course it's not personal. What do you take me for?”

 _Ah, the latter, then._ “Well, B-H, I understand your point of view. We've been in this game long enough to know that politicians like to play favourites and have their little foibles. And, of course, things could change after the election.”

The other man blinked. “Do you really think there'll be a change of government?” he whispered, as if he were secretly invoking the Devil with the Inquisition just outside his door.

“I have no opinion on the matter, one way or another.” _And neither should you, in public._

Blenner-Hassett only shrugged, as if the principle of a politically neutral civil service was some sort of tedious inconvenience. As Mycroft watched, the other man adjusted his cufflinks, toyed with his tie pin, and consulted his watch, twice. Mycroft knew he should probably make an effort to deduce what the man might be attempting to play at, but in that moment couldn't be bothered.

Mycroft had long thought that Blenner-Hassett resided in the sweetest of sweet spots. The man was the exemplar of the median in everything that it was possible to measure about a man, and that suited Mycroft's plan to a T.

The truly stupid were almost impossible to manipulate, other than by coarse threats, and Mycroft had never cared for those, considering them beneath him. The stupid had no imagination, and as anyone trained in interrogation would attest, your subject's imagination was one of your greatest weapons. The truly intelligent didn't get themselves into this sort of position, and usually played the game armed with fall-back plans. The vast hordes in the middle—the moderately intelligent, especially if they had ambitions or something to lose—were the true sheep. The easiest to manipulate because they provided their own levers, and if handled properly they would even pull them for you. And Robin Blenner-Hassett was practically made of levers, and he'd spent most of his career pulling them himself for the benefit of other people. Mycroft included, he was willing to admit.

So Mycroft couldn't help but wonder why the man was attempting to break out of long-established habits. Perhaps self-awareness had arrived late for B-H. His fading looks obviously were making it more difficult to seduce his way to advancement. Or perhaps he had just had enough of other people using him, then discarding him as dead weight on their own way up the ladder.

“But you still think there'll be a change of government,” Blenner-Hassett asked again, _sotto voce_.

“What I really think, B-H, is that regardless of what happens in the upcoming election, nothing will change for people like us. Things will go on as they are, just as they have after elections since time immemorial. On the surface, things might appear to change. Oh, job titles will change, and people get shuffled around, but essentially things will remain the same. One of the greatest strengths of the system is that it is highly resistant to the thoughtless tampering of amateurs.”

And Mycroft knew that Blenner-Hassett understood what he meant by “amateurs”: politicians, SPADs and “consultants”. As he watched, all animation disappeared from the other man's face and his shoulders slumped a little. Mycroft never regretted being the bearer of discomfiting truths; if he could use them to serve his own ends, all the better. 

Blenner-Hassett would spend the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours disconsolate at his plan having failed, and his hopes for change dashed. But if Mycroft had calculated correctly regarding the man's frustrations about Blythe, Blenner-Hassett would then pull himself up out of his funk and begin to initiate some change at the Foreign Office on his own behalf. The fact that those changes also served Mycroft's goals would be a convenient side-benefit to having helped a colleague and former social acquaintance.

~ + ~

**Monday, February 23**

When Mycroft arrived at Whitehall on Monday morning, he immediately noted a tang of subdued excitement in the air around his staff. Andrea waited in his office, though she seemed distracted by the mobile in her hand. She returned his greeting with a vague, “Good morning, sir,” and Mycroft wondered if he should ask her what was going on. 

As he removed his coat he sensed she was waiting to tell him something, so he settled in behind his desk, folded his hands in his lap and looked up to her with a small, expectant smile.

“Have you spoken to your brother since yesterday afternoon?” she asked.

“No, I had dinner with Robin Blenner-Hassett last evening. Why? What has Sherlock done now?”

“You knew about his stalker, didn't you?”

“Yes, Chief Inspector Lestrade brought it to my attention. Though I think 'stalker' is something of an exaggeration.”

“Well, he outed her yesterday.”

“Oh. Who did it turn out to be?”

Her eyes twinkled as she paused. “I'm tempted to make you guess.”

“That would be most unwise on a Monday morning, before I've had a cup of coffee.”

She hummed under her breath in acknowledgement as she turned her attention to her phone for a few seconds, quickly scrolling. “It was Kitty Riley.”

“Isn't that interesting,” he replied with a hint of malicious glee.

“Isn't it, though?”

“And how did Sherlock 'out' her?”

“He didn't say other than that he caught her following him and he saw the photos on her mobile—”

“He stole her mobile and broke her pass code.” Mycroft's heart sank a little.

“I suppose so. I can't imagine anyone at the Met would care about that. And it's not like she has a platform for making a fuss, anymore.”

Mycroft hadn't bothered tracking the Riley woman's fall within the press establishment after the public debunking of the “Rich Brook” conspiracy and her inexcusable naiveté in believing Moriarty's story. But Andrea had done so—almost as a hobby, Mycroft had noted at the time—so he wasn't surprised by her interest in the matter. “What happened?”

“He tweeted that it was her that had been stalking him and his followers have turned on her, as you would expect.” She glanced back down at her mobile, rubbing her thumb along the edge of the screen. “Who needs police when you have social media?”

This almost-gleeful vindictiveness was an aspect of Andrea's character he'd never seen before. “I hardly think encouraging mob 'justice' is desirable.”

“You don't think she deserves it?”

“What I think about Miss Riley is irrelevant. While she is a stupid, lazy, incompetent young woman, that is hardly a crime. And her activities in no way threatened my brother or his work, regardless of what she might have thought at the time. While I appreciate the uses of social media for surveillance purposes, I have no interest in encouraging its use as a replacement for legitimate policing or judicial procedure. Her belief in Moriarty's lies cost her her career and unless she changes her name, her notoriety renders her essentially unemployable. She was a fool and has paid an adequate price for her greed and intemperance.”

Andrea pondered his answer and Mycroft could tell it didn't satisfy her. “Did you go after her after your brother left?”

“Why would I do such a thing?” Mycroft was surprised by the question. Andrea was familiar with most of his activities consequent to Moriarty's suicide and Sherlock's exile. He couldn't imagine why she thought he would have bothered with a nobody like Kitty Riley. “Like the large majority of people, Miss Riley was more than adequate to the task of ruining her own life and career. What would be the profit in wasting anyone else's time finishing the job for her?”

~ + ~

**Tuesday, February 24**

“Your brother has gone to see Christina Martin again.”

Mycroft's head snapped up from the report he was reviewing. “Mrs Fraser called you?”

Andrea shifted on her feet. “No, the receptionist at the Archives.” Mycroft knew he looked perplexed, as she clarified. “I asked her to contact me if he showed up again.” She shrugged. “I know you don't want him bothering her, and he didn't have an appointment.” Her tone as she continued began to drift towards the defensive, likely due to Mycroft's underwhelming response. “I sent Plummer to pick him up and take him home.”

Mycroft just continued staring up at her as she stood in front of his desk and he saw that in that moment she felt like a child called into the headmaster's office, and was not pleased about it. He hadn't yet decided if her actions were presumptuous or showed an admirable forethought. She ordinarily didn't meddle in things relating to Sherlock or Mycroft's personal life, so he wondered at this aberration. Mycroft conceded, though, that Christina's involvement dragged matters into the grey area of overlapping personal and professional concerns. He wondered if Andrea's plan had been driven by a desire to prove her loyalty after the unpleasantness of a few weeks before. If this was the manner she chose to try to regain his trust, he had to wonder at her lack of judgement.

Mycroft knew that she saw all of this on his face, because he made no attempt to hide it. She turned on a heel and headed for the outer office. “I'll just call him back, then,” she said as she approached the doorway.

“No, no, leave it. It will profit Sherlock to learn he can't just charge into her place of work demanding she drop everything for him, like everyone else in his life does.”

Andrea turned. She gave him a curt nod before continuing on her way.

Mycroft sat back with a sigh. Within three seconds he was massaging his temples with his fingertips. The day had been pleasantly uneventful up to a minute ago; he should have known it couldn't last. This matter threw something else on his desk that he didn't want: the question of whether or not to call Sherlock. While his brother deserved a good talking-to, Mycroft knew doing so likely wouldn't accomplish anything other than egging Sherlock on. But if Mycroft didn't act, his brother's next approach would be to pursue her at her home, and Mycroft wanted to forestall that if at all possible. He could imagine what Christina's response would be, especially is Mycroft were on the scene and he and Sherlock launched into one of their usual sniping fits.

Toying with his mobile, Mycroft glanced back to the report on his desk, caught between two equally disheartening tasks. He knew Sherlock would be expecting a call. Mycroft consulted his watch; it was possible that Plummer had arrived at Kew already. The least he could do was wait for them to drop Sherlock off at Baker Street. His staff didn't deserve to have to deal with Sherlock at the best of times, much less during the strop he would be indulging in once Mycroft told him off.

Half an hour later, Mycroft was staring at the mobile in his hand, a disconsolate heaviness settling on his shoulders. He could always wait and call later, he knew. Just because Sherlock would be waiting for his call did not mean that Mycroft had to do so at that moment. Sliding the mobile back into his jacket pocket, Mycroft thought, _To hell with him. Let him stew in his own expectation._ That might turn out to be at least as effective, making Sherlock wait all day for his call. The more he thought about it, the more Mycroft saw the benefit of this plan. Waiting for Mycroft to call would keep the incident at the forefront of Sherlock's mind all day; if Mycroft called now, the conversation would be deleted from his brother's mind the moment it ended. This way, keeping the issue unresolved, keeping Sherlock thinking about it, might result in a bit of reflection and if they were lucky, a tiny gain in self-awareness. 

_Chance would be a fine thing_ , Mycroft thought at the notion, before returning to the depression-inducing subject of the British arms trade.

~ + ~

**Wednesday, February 25**

Mycroft didn't recognise the sender's address, which both disturbed and intrigued him in equal measure. The subject line: “A taste of things to come” intrigued him most of all, and despite his training and all the knowledge he'd gained in over twenty years of Intelligence work, with a brief _frisson_ of excitement at the possible danger, he opened the email.

None of his computer's security systems or protocols engaged, so either the email was technologically benign or the malware was exceptionally good. The message was brief: “A little light reading from a friend.”

There was a PDF attachment.

He stared at the tiny red and black icon for ten seconds before calling Landon, his new head of IT, and confirmed that his machine's security systems were up to date. The man sounded somewhat insulted by the question, which, once Mycroft gave it a moment's thought, he acknowledged to himself was entirely within his rights. The tingling edge of excitement rose a level or two as he downloaded the attachment and waited for the security systems to assess it. When they gave it the all clear, he opened the file. 

It was obviously an extract from a larger document. Mycroft recognised the naming protocols shown in the document footer. Two sentences in, his stomach fell and he was short of breath. It was an extract from the Senate Intelligence Committee report, the un-redacted version. The supposedly still-secret un-redacted version.

Mycroft's name was all over it. The file was made up of pages from various sections of the report, all of which mentioned Mycroft's role in various CIA operations. He scrolled through the sixteen pages. Afghanistan. Diego Garcia. The bulk of it referred to his work in Turkey and the Balkans in the 1990s, when he was briefly engaged in field work before moving into analysis full-time. The pages included information Mycroft knew had been removed upon request of the British government, so they had come from the first draft of the report.

He forwarded the email (minus the attachment) to Landon and asked him to try and trace the origins, and specifically to see if it had followed the same path as the hacking which resulted in the broadcast of the first “Moriarty” video. Though Mycroft knew there was little hope of finding the source, they had to at least go through the motions. Anyone who had access to the report the pages had come from was going to be able to cover their tracks.

Was it from someone in the CIA? The email's subject line could mean anything. A CIA source would explain access to the un-redacted report, but not one of his contacts had so much as graced him with an acknowledgement when he'd contacted them to find out who had told them about Sherlock killing Magnussen. If no one was willing to talk to him, why would they bother with such a blundering attempt at intimidation? Was he being set up? And how had they discovered his private email address, known only to his most senior staff and fewer than ten others? Not even Sherlock knew it.

The realisation that his security had likely been breached on a fundamental level added more weight to Mycroft's suspicions about the Magnussen leak. Whoever had sent the email had most likely obtained his address from whoever had provided the information about Sherlock, and quite possibly about the Kosovo mission; it was too much of a coincidence for any other logical explanation. And that person was close to him.

Mycroft leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. He dove down into his mind and let it wander over the data, sorting, organising, examining it from all possible angles. His mental algorithms spun out possible scenarios, most of which he discarded. Promising ones he shepherded into pockets of his memory for further examination and testing later. But there was only so much he could do when so much data was missing. And he was comfortable with only so much speculation.

When he opened his eyes, forty minutes had passed and a cup of almost-cold tea sat on his blotter, testament to Andrea's eternal vigilance. He took a sip and winced. On his computer he noticed another email from the same source as the one with the attachment.

Embedded in the email was a photograph of Moriarty, purportedly holding up the front page of that day's _Daily Mail_ , an inane grin on his face and giving a puerile thumbs-up to the camera. The only line of text read: “Come out and play, Mikey. You know you want to.”

Mycroft stared at the picture and contemplated the capabilities of modern image-manipulation technology. He wondered if he should call Lestrade. Or Sherlock. Or Lady Smallwood. Or perhaps Christina. If nothing else, she might be able to tell him if the photograph was genuine. He called her direct number at the Archives and five minutes later they had plans for dinner. Then he put the matter aside for the time being, allowing his mind to chip away at the problem in the background while he went on with the rest of the day.

That evening, Mycroft arrived at the Archives just before it closed to the public, ostensibly to collect Christina for their “date”. Seeing the expression on his face when she met him at the reception desk, she beckoned him to follow her with a faint smile, and they headed for her office. When she saw the copy of the email he'd brought, she gave him a heavy look before opening up a series of applications on her computer. As she had mentioned when discussing the file Deborah Oppenheimer and Sherlock had brought her, collecting the metadata did not take more than a few minutes. While he waited, she peered at two pages of printouts, idly toying with a stress ball with one hand. When she was done, she handed him back his flash drive and deleted the file from her system, three times.

“The verdict?”

“I'm starving.” 

That bad, Mycroft thought to himself.

She shut down various machines, pulled on her coat and with a quelling expression, led him out of her office. Along the way, Christina greeted various colleagues, allowed herself to be waylaid with a short conversation regarding budgets by a sixty-ish man ( _divorced, three cats, builds model aeroplanes as a hobby, has had a crush on Christina for at least seven years_ ), and ignored the questioning glances sent Mycroft's way as they progressed through the building to the parking lot where Peterson waited.

Once they were in the car and heading towards central London, Christina turned to him. “I'm assuming you know about the twin?”

He watched her for a second, not sure how to respond. She continued before he had a chance. “You have to trust me when I say that no one knows I have these.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile as she pulled a few sheets of folded paper out of her handbag. “Though I realise now that of course you've probably had copies of them for years.”

“A day full of surprise documents, I see,” he replied as he took them from her.

“What other surprise documents?”

Mycroft stilled for a moment. “The photograph, of course.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, but didn't pursue the matter. Under her examination, he unfolded the pages. They had obviously been printed from microfilm; the first sheet was a copy of a certificate of naturalisation, issued to a Frances Michael Moriarty and his wife Margaret Parkman Moriarty. Below their names were listed those of four dependent children. At the top of the list: James Eustace Moriarty, born in Dublin on December 1st, 1976. The second: James Ignatius Moriarty, born December 2nd, 1976. Underneath were copies of their birth certificates, likely submitted by their parents as part of their citizenship application.

“I haven't seen these, but yes, I did know of the brother. He is reported to have died in a boating accident in 1992. When did you retrieve these?” 

“Right after Deborah and Sherlock came to see me.” Christina took the papers back from him and replaced them in her bag. “So much for eliminating clone or ghost from contention.”

“I think we might have always eliminated clone.”

“Well, you'd know better than me whether or not that's true.”

Mycroft acknowledged the attempt at a joke with a thin-lipped smile. “Was this what you told Sherlock when he brought you the CCTV footage?”

“I intimated that it was one of the possibilities. As I told you, there was no evidence the footage was faked or tampered with. It seemed most likely based on the evidence and, you know, logic.”

“What about the photograph?”

“What did he mean by 'come out and play'?”

“That is none of your concern.” He paused to fend off one of her mock scowls with a quelling look of his own and she laughed. “Is it genuine?”

“There's no metadata to analyse. Well, there is, but sending it through the email system overrides the original metadata. Sorry. If I was more familiar with Photoshop I might be able to tell from the image itself if it had been shopped. I know people with those kinds of skills, but I don't imagine you want them seeing it.” 

“Definitely not.”

“And you don't want any of your people to see it.”

It wasn't a question, so Mycroft didn't answer.

“So, does this mean I should be expecting a bullet in the back of the head at the end of this trip?”

He allowed her a smile. “Oh, no. I'm not in the mood to dine alone tonight.”

She laughed. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Perhaps.”

They were silent as Peterson drove them into the West End. As they approached Pall Mall, Christina turned to Mycroft. “What else did he send you?”

“What do you mean?”

She allowed that attempted diversion to pass without any comment other than a dismissive look. “What other 'surprise documents' did he send you?”

Mycroft sighed. “Again, nothing you need concern yourself with.”

“You know that saying that just makes me more motivated to find out what is is, don't you? I can't help you if I don't know what's happening.”

“And I cannot keep you safe if you are involved. You know too much already.”

This seemed to mollify her for a few minutes as they crawled through traffic, each lost in their own thoughts. 

“Well, we know one thing,” Christina said, breaking the silence.

“What is that?” Mycroft asked when she didn't continue.

“They're idiots.” She turned to him, an impish grin on her face that set Mycroft on his guard. “If they think that's going to intimidate you.”

He didn't have a response to that, so just gave her a quick flick of a smile.

“What are you going to do?”

 _Other than find a way to convince you to drop this line of enquiry?_ “I do not know.”

“Are you going to tell Elizabeth?”

“No. And I would appreciate you not telling her, either.”

“Of course.” She paused and stared out the window and Mycroft allowed himself the faint hope she might be finished with insisting on being involved. But she soon dashed that hope. “Whoever it is knows you, but not well,” she continued, almost under her breath.

“Christina—”

“You shouldn't have brought it to me if you didn't want me to be concerned about it. Do you think it was Blythe?”

“No.” He could tell that the certainty of his answer surprised her.

“Why not?”

“He would never threaten me; it gives me an opportunity to counter. He would just act.”

To Mycroft's relief, she did not pursue the obvious follow-up question: did he think Blythe provided the sender with Mycroft's private email address. She turned her attention back to the passing traffic outside, leaving him to his thoughts.

Mycroft wondered if he should inform Sherlock that “Moriarty” had poked his head above the balustrade again. The Watsons, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson could conceivably be in danger again, but Mycroft's instinct told him no. Whoever it was had approached him directly this time. He'd exhibited no interest in Sherlock, and only the fluke of the political situation between Mycroft and MI5 had kept the CCTV recording from him in the first place. But Sherlock should be informed, all the same.

Mycroft could use Lestrade as go-between again. But Lestrade's position at the Met was precarious enough as it was. Mycroft wondered if he could risk a visit to Baker Street to bring the news himself.

The other question hammering at the front of Mycroft's mind was: how did Moriarty's people get hold of a copy of the Senate Intelligence Committee report? Did Blythe leak it to them? If so, ignoring what the response of the Americans would be, it was a prosecutable offence, a possibility that made Mycroft's heart skip a beat. Making a connection between Blythe and anyone associated with Moriarty would bring the man down in a trice, but again, Mycroft had no proof. Nor, really, anything other than speculation that Blythe was involved. “Moriarty” could have had someone hack into the CIA's servers and steal a copy. They could have a mole in the CIA itself; after all, they most likely had one in the British Intelligence services, so it wasn't out of the question. Or they could own a senator on the committee. There were a number of equally disquieting possibilities, most of which had no real bearing on Mycroft's situation other than the very real threat posed by them publicly exposing him.

“Come out and play.” Mycroft wondered if they really thought that would be enough to draw him out, but doubted it. Whoever these people were, they had successfully hidden from Mycroft, Sherlock, and (presumably) the entire British and American Intelligence communities; there was no possibility they were amateurs in the art of subterfuge. Strangely enough, though, Mycroft felt energised by the realisation. He now knew what his enemy wanted. So now he knew what strategies he needed to devise to bring them down. There was no doubt he was dealing with the “clever one”, but then, so was Mycroft and while he almost didn't like to admit it, he looked forward to bagging a “Moriarty” of his own.

~ + ~

**Thursday, February 26**

After twenty-four hours of almost non-stop analysis, Mycroft acknowledged that he had to decide: was the CIA involved with the emails or not?

His first reaction had been to assume that it was, regardless of what he had told Christina. His relationship with the Americans had been strained ever since the Bond Air incident, and Sherlock’s murder of Magnussen had rendered both of them _persona non grata_ as far as the CIA was concerned. But Mycroft’s pesky, quixotic instincts whispered that his first reaction had been wrong. After all, why would the CIA have warned him that they were going to “out” him as an Intelligence operative? And if they’d wanted something from him, wouldn’t that demand have accompanied the threat? The higher-ups at the CIA had never valued subtlety over-much; Mycroft had always suspected that they thought it to be somehow un-American. No, the emails didn’t fit the pattern of how the CIA operated. And he couldn’t imagine that they would think such efforts would be required to “punish” him; casting him out, making him a pariah within the profession, would be seen as more than adequate to make their point.

The more likely, and more disturbing, possibility was that the threat had come from someone either inside the British Intelligence services ( _Blythe!_ , shouted the voice in the back of his mind) or an outsider. But using the Senate Intelligence Committee report seemed too straightforward for Blythe, and would have made him an obvious suspect from the start. Mycroft's statement to Christina about Blythe not bothering with a threat still held true; the man _would_ have just acted if he felt he had the information he needed to take Mycroft down. This latter point led Mycroft to dismiss Blythe until he had more concrete evidence of the man’s involvement.

In the end, Mycroft thought the most likely scenario was that there had been a leak of the report to someone who had used it for the purposes of an implied threat. The obvious suspect in this case was whoever or whatever was responsible for the plague of “Moriartys” that had been popping up every four weeks or so since the day of Sherlock’s aborted mission. And while the idea of such a highly secret report making its way out into the wilds of the general public was disturbing, Mycroft knew that under the right circumstances—ones where he controlled the conversation about it—a leak of this kind could be made to work to his advantage. 

For a minute or so, Mycroft debated whether or not he would indulge himself by releasing a carefully-placed rumour into the forest of Whitehall, then standing back while the wildlife ran amok in a mad scramble to determine if it were true, and to point fingers at enemies as the responsible party. Doing so might flush out some useful information, but he would have to ensure that the rumour couldn’t be traced back to him. After due consideration he realised there likely would not be an adequate return on investment of effort, both in keeping his role secret and attempting to accomplish any actual business of government in the centre of the ensuing chaos such a rumour would elicit.

But there was a more productive way of profiting from the emails and what they might represent. Luckily for Mycroft, realising those benefits did not require him to identify the culprit, which was irrelevant to the plan that had come to him. Because the fact of a possible leak was in itself valuable, to the right people.

And it was a good thing that Mycroft knew exactly who would most value that information. The question was: would he be able to get through to them? The sensitivity of the tale limited his options to bad, or worse. With one exception, they were people he would not have hesitated to contact three months ago. But now?

With a mental nod to the irony of it, he acknowledged that the person at the CIA he least wanted to speak with was the one most likely to listen to what he had to say. Mycroft consulted his watch; it was just coming up to 4.30 pm in Langley. Unless he wanted to wait another day, he would need to call now. After retrieving the number from the locked bottom drawer of his desk, and entering it into his phone, Mycroft stared at it until the screen went dark. Mentally chastising himself for a fool, he re-entered the number and hit the call button with a peremptory jab of his thumb.

While he waited for his number to be bounced through the automated security protocols, his nerves began to reassert themselves and before he was really ready his call arrived at its destination. Just after the second ring, the call was picked up. 

“Jorgensen,” came down the line and for a moment Mycroft thought he felt a sharp tightening in the upper left quadrant of his chest. He assured himself that his heart most definitely had not skipped a beat.

“Hello?” Jorgensen asked and Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Agent Jorgensen—”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Not quite.”

“That’s still the lamest joke in the world, you know.”

Mycroft wanted to drop his head onto his desk in relief at the quiet laughter he heard at the back of the man’s voice.

“The old jokes are the best, I find.” Mycroft paused and gathered himself a bit. They were talking. In a sense, the intervening fifteen years fell away, and Mycroft was glad to realise that he was not about to fall apart into a million pieces. “How are you, Nick?”

“Been better. Patty’s not well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Mycroft wondered if it were a good sign or not that Jorgensen thought it appropriate or necessary to bring up his wife.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“And yourself?”

“Oh, I’m okay. Older, but okay.”

“Ah, yes, aging. Unfortunately, the only effective alternative is the only thing worse.”

Jorgensen laughed and Mycroft felt a tiny fissure open up somewhere in his brain, letting the leading edges of unwelcome memories show themselves. “Okay, Mycroft. I’m guessing you didn’t call to ask about my health. What’s up?”

Mycroft was surprised the man was giving him the floor, even though he knew it ultimately didn’t mean anything other than that Jorgensen thought he was worthy of a bit of friendly interrogation. “I’ve come into some information that I believe your employers would want to know. 

“Okay.” The bonhomie was gone, replaced by the flat, businesslike tones of the CIA agent of thirty years’ experience. “Why do you think it’d interest us?”

“It is in reference to a certain document which has been accorded the highest secrecy status and which addresses matters which have garnered considerable public attention in the last few months.”

“Uh huh.” The man made little attempt to hide his scepticism. Mycroft had expected it; he was more surprised that he’d been allowed to get this far along in his story without being dismissed entirely. 

“So, what about this document?”

“It has been leaked.”

There was no response for a few seconds and Mycroft imagined that Jorgensen was going over the possibilities in his mind. “How do you know?”

“Someone has sent me copies of some of the pages.”

“How many pages?”

“Sixteen.” 

“And how do you know what document they’re from?”

This question puzzled Mycroft; the following one should have been: why those pages? Perhaps the man didn’t care about the why of the situation. If so, he’d become sloppy over the years; on the other hand, the man was a former field agent, not an analyst. “I’ve seen the entire document. Quite recently, in fact.”

There was nothing but silence in reply, and Mycroft knew that the other man was narrowing the list of candidates. Possibly down to one.

“Who sent it?”

“No idea.”

Mycroft knew that _that_ would tell the man a lot of what he needed to know about what they were really discussing. “My staff have been attempting to track the source since yesterday.”

“Is that when you got it?”

“Yes.”

While Jorgensen chewed over the implications of that statement, Mycroft was left to his own thoughts. Now that the shock of first contact after fifteen years was over, he was pleased to note that he was no longer struggling to maintain his usual outward calm and businesslike demeanour. 

“Don’t you guys have _any_ security?”

Mycroft wanted to snap back a pithy reply at the tone, but held back. “It was sent to my personal account.”

“Okay.” Now Jorgensen sounded intrigued; it was obvious that he could imagine how difficult it would be to get that address. “What do you want from me?”

“I would like you to take this information to your superiors.”

“Someone’s going to need to follow up with this.”

“Yes, I am aware of the standard procedure in these circumstances.” 

“Sorry. I guess I deserved that.” Jorgensen paused for a moment and Mycroft suspected he knew what the next question would be. “Why don’t you just forward what you got to me. Save everyone a lot of time.”

 _Not bloody likely._ “No, I’m afraid I can’t do that. I do not believe you have the security clearance to see it.”

Mycroft could almost feel the outrage burning up the airwaves over the Atlantic. The man had always hated analysts who thought they needed to spoon-feed intelligence to field agents. And he likely didn’t welcome the reminder of how Mycroft’s career had greatly outstripped his since their parting. 

“Why should I help you?”

“Oh, Nicholas, let’s not play this game. This is important. Certainly more so than either of our egos.” Mycroft sensed that the “either” had mollified the man, at least a little.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll kick it upstairs. I have no idea what they’ll make of it. If anything. They might just let you hang out to dry.”

 _Damn._ The man had obviously deduced that the emails had been some form of threat, and so contained information detrimental to Mycroft. “That’s all I can ask for. Thank you.”

There was an uncomfortable pause and Mycroft wondered how quickly he could sign off without offending the man, now that official business was completed.

“Okay, off the record, Mycroft. Who do you think it is?”

 _Off the record, my eye. Honestly, Nicholas, what sort of fool do you take me for._ “There are too many candidates to make even a respectable guess.”

The man laughed and Mycroft knew that there might even be a small chance that Jorgensen would do as he said he would. Which was likely more than Mycroft would have done if their roles had been reversed. But then, Nick had always been the better man. Mycroft had known that fifteen years ago, and he could only hope that it was just as true now as it had been then.

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering what Sherlock, Molly, and the rest of the gang were up to this week? [Find out here. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/12272711)


	9. Mycroft wondered if he should bring a gun

**Saturday, February 28**

Mycroft hadn't understood why Christina had chosen the National Gallery for their “date”. It had seemed an unusual choice for two people who had lived in London for more than twenty years.

But the moment they entered the building he noticed her relax, and Mycroft suspected that they were in one of her favourite places in the city. She knew exactly where she was going, and was obviously following her own pre-determined, idiosyncratic, itinerary, rather than the tourist approach of tackling the collection in geographic or chronological order. 

Mycroft was content to trail along in her wake, observing her as much as the art. She did not solicit his opinions on any of the paintings she stopped to view. Either she sensed that he had little interest—Mycroft knew almost nothing about art—or she didn't care about his opinions on the matter. 

They made their slow perambulations from one end of the building to another. Sometimes they visited the same room multiple times. Most of the rooms they passed through in a distracted amble without stopping; it took on a ritualistic aspect that soon engaged his curiosity. He noted where they stopped, analysed the available data to see if there was a pattern to her choices: subject, style, country of origin, artist. At the eleventh painting, he caught the pattern and chuckled. They were making their way through the French 18th century for the second time, she turned to him with a slight, expectant smile on her face. “Well?”

“I imagine you thought that an amusing riddle?”

She threaded her arm through his and and steered him in the direction of Italy and Spain. “Not as amusing as the fact it took you an hour to figure it out.”

“Alternating the titles and artist's names was clever.”

“Unfortunate necessity. Would you believe they only have one painting by an artist whose name begins with Y?”

They paused while a Chinese tour group barged past to enter the Van Dyck room. 

“Do you have an answer to my question?” she asked, in reference to her puzzle.

“You already know my answer.”

“I know _an_ answer. I think by now I deserve to hear _the_ answer.”

“You already know that, as well.”

She didn't respond other than a slight downturn to the corners of her mouth as she led him into the warren of small rooms at the northern edge of the museum. Mycroft didn't know what she was expecting him to say, so he silently followed her to the last two paintings on her itinerary. While they stood in front of the last element of her puzzle, she glanced between him and the painting.

“This has always made me think of you.”

“I can't imagine why.”

“Really?” She turned to give the art her full attention. “You don't resemble him much, I agree. Perhaps it's the demeanour. And the nose.”

He ignored the mild jibe. “I recognise the weariness that comes from heavy responsibility and serving a fickle master.”

“You don't serve any master other than yourself.”

He knew there was no arguing with her on that point; her prejudices were too entrenched and he had no real interest in expending the effort necessary to dislodge them. So he followed as she ambled through interminable-seeming rooms of suffering Spanish saints and Italian mannerists, back to France.

When she finally stopped, she was standing in front of a painting of a young woman in a straw hat with a band of flowers around the crown. Mycroft had noticed Christina's glance at the painting when they'd come through the room previously. As he approached, she spoke without turning. “Elizabeth Vigée Le Brun, let me introduce the bane of my existence, Mycroft Holmes.” 

Mycroft smiled at the preposterousness of it and gave the painting his full attention. He started. “It must be disconcerting, looking into a two hundred year-old mirror.”

“I look nothing like that.”

“I beg to differ. Other than the colouring and the clothing, the resemblance is extraordinary.”

“And the twenty year age difference. Have you ever seen an expression like that on my face?”

“Yes.”

At that, she turned to him; her expression at that moment communicating nothing but confusion. She _hmm_ -ed at him and he followed her back to the room of Van Dycks. Christina walked straight to a painting of a rather florid man in black. Mycroft didn't recognise it; he leant over to read the label on the wall. “George Gage,” he muttered to himself as he inspected the subject's poorly executed hands. “You're taking me to see all your old friends.” She flashed a brief, seemingly genuine smile at him. “And your fondness for redheads continues unchanged, I see.” 

She chuckled in reply as she peered closely at the painting.

Mycroft couldn't imagine what she was looking for, but he stood back, leaning on his umbrella, watching her examine the man in the painting. She was approaching a closeness that was going to draw the attention of a guard if she wasn't careful. “Don't turn around.” His ears perked up at her whisper. “Blond, mid-fifties, looks like a Royal Marines recruitment poster, by the Stuart brothers.” 

Mycroft casually extricated his phone from his pocket and typed out a quick text as he turned his back to the room. “We're not alone, of course. And others will be here in a minute or so.”

“Is the Bond girl watching?”

He choked back a laugh at her characterisation of Andrea as a “Bond girl”. “Someone will be.”

She grinned at him again, though this time it didn't reach her eyes. “Of course.” She raised her voice to normal conversational tones. “I'm off to see Whistlejacket.” Then she headed back to the Central Hall, located just behind the main entrance. 

Mycroft wondered again at her instincts and just how much training her uncle had managed to impart to her before she'd abandoned him for the superior mysteries of cryptography. As he turned to follow her out of the room, he pulled out his pocket-watch and checked the time. He let a bored expression cross his face, like a put-upon husband humouring his wife's desire to see a famous attraction. As he slid the watch back into his pocket, he glanced out of the corner of his eye to the man she'd described and almost stopped in his tracks. 

Nick Jorgenson. He had come himself. 

Mycroft felt his heart stutter as he forced his feet to keep moving. Though it had been fifteen years since he'd seen the man, even from that angle he'd recognise him anywhere. He should have suspected it was Nick from Christina's description, anyway.

By the time Mycroft reached her, he'd managed to force his breath into a semblance of normalcy. When Christina turned to him, a look of concern appeared for a moment before being replaced by her usual expression of distracted bemusement. She glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the building's main entrance and he knew by the momentary relaxation of her shoulders that she'd seen a member of his staff that she recognised. Plummer, he noted as they ambled towards the Trafalgar Square entrance, casual as any tourists with all the time in the world. 

Outside, Mycroft opened his umbrella and hurried to catch up to Christina as she walked quickly towards Canada House, and for a moment Mycroft imagined her racing through it and straight to the High Commissioner's office. As they approached the southward turn of the A4, his car pulled up and he followed her into the back seat. To his relief, they were alone.

As the car made its way around Charing Cross and back toward Pall Mall, Mycroft resisted the urge to stick his head between his knees to fight off his light-headedness. When he regained his composure, Christina was looking at him. “Your fondness for blonds continues unchanged, I see.”

He leant back into the seat. “Very droll.”

“You looked like you were about to lose it, there. Don't tell me. Married. Top secret super-spy. The love of your life and you've been pining ever since. Got yourself a little stakeout sex—”

“Christina, don't.”

She peered at him. “Oh, shit, I was joking. Oh. My. God. Mycroft, you idiot.” She burst out laughing then stopped when she saw the look on his face. “Don't what? Don't tell you your life is just one cliché after another?”

Christina's language tumbling down the social scale most likely meant she'd been knocked off-balance by the revelation. Knowing he'd had relationships with men was one thing; almost bumping into one of his former lovers at the National Gallery was something else entirely. “Please stop swearing; it's most unpleasant.”

“Lord protect us,” she said, turning to look out the window as the Crimea War memorial flashed by. “So, why do you think your married closet-case foxhole ex-boyfriend is in London?”

He sighed. “Christina—”

“Sorry. It's just I'm having some difficulty taking any of this seriously, now. It's like we've turned down the wrong street and ended up in an Ealing comedy.”

Mycroft stopped massaging his temples with his fingertips for a moment. “I don't imagine there will be much amusement involved in the resolution of this particular wrinkle.”

“No, you're right.” To his relief her tone was calm again. “But still. Interesting timing for him to come crawling out of the woodwork. Or is it?”

Mycroft knew it would be best if he defused Christina's curiosity about anything to do with the CIA, so he just shrugged. “It might be unrelated.”

“Yeah, right, Mr 'there is no such thing as coincidences'.” She paused and Mycroft prayed she would veer off on one of her tangents. He'd even be willing to put up with one of her tantrums if she would just stop talking about Jorgenson. “Is it about that email you got last week?”

 _Bugger_. “I doubt very much that the CIA's surveillance capabilities extend to hacking into my MI6 email account.”

“Nice try.” She gave him a smile that was obviously meant to remove the sting from her words, but made him feel not one whit better. “He's got you rattled. Do you really think he's a threat?”

“In general, yes, very much so. In this particular case, no.”

It was obvious she didn't believe him, but to his relief she didn't argue the point. “You need to start being more careful.”

Mycroft couldn't help glaring at her. “You were the one who wanted to go to the National Gallery.”

“Then you need to start telling me no when I want to do something that's going to endanger you.”

“I'm perfectly capable of defusing your more dangerous impulses. I didn't think this would be one of them.”

“How did he know you'd be there?”

“That is not something you need concern yourself with.”

It was not outside the realm of possibility that the Americans had him under surveillance. However, it would be highly unlikely that they could do so without his own security team discovering that fact. The implications of it, and the lack of warning, caused Mycroft's heart to sink. He had not managed to cut out all the rot that had infiltrated his own people. This was going to get uglier before the end.

Mycroft watched Christina resume staring out the window as a call from Andrea rang through.

“Sir, you're on your way?”

“Yes, as I'm sure you've already seen, Peterson was his usual efficient self. Thank you for that.” He caught Christina's smile out of the corner of his eye. For some reason she'd taken a liking to his principal driver; he reminded himself to ask the man what was behind that when he had a moment. “Do you have anything for me?” he asked, turning his attention back to Andrea.

“Nothing conclusive yet. What we've heard so far indicates the Americans may be unaware of his presence here.”

Mycroft frowned. “That is surprising.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mycroft's brain began its automatic data aggregation protocols, combing recently acquired intelligence in the search for any data that might be relevant to the day's startling turn of events.

When the car stopped he barely noticed. As he made to step out, he remembered he wasn't alone. He turned to Christina and found her assessing expression on. “Peterson will take you home.”

“I'll be in all evening if you want to drop by. You needn't bother calling; just come if you want.”

Her expression gave him no clues at all; he was perplexed at the change from her former teasing and persistent questioning. “Thank you,” he replied automatically as he stepped out of the car. As he strode up the steps of the club, another call came in from Andrea; he paused to take it in the outer vestibule.

“I can confirm he's made no attempt to follow you, sir.”

“He knows where I'm likely to be.”

Mycroft paused the conversation as he passed through the library and took a shortcut to the Strangers Room. Once the door was closed behind him, he put the phone back to his ear as he poured himself a drink. 

“He's still at the same location. We have three people on him, but—”

“But if he wants to go underground, they're not likely to be able to stop him.”

“I don't imagine so, sir. Based on his reputation.”

“Entirely deserved, I can avow. Thank you. Please keep me posted at your discretion.”

“Of course, sir.”

Mycroft rang off and sat with his drink, toying with it more than partaking; it was too early in the day for him, but he wanted something in his hands other than a mobile. He clutched the cut crystal, the feel of the edges and points pressing into the flesh of his hands providing the foreground of his attention with a point of focus, as most of his thoughts sank into his reasoning mind in an attempt to fight off the memories. He would not, could not, succumb to sentiment and nostalgia; he simply didn't have the time. After their telephone conversation he had been able to resist the pull of memories, but the sight of the man was obviously a more exacting test of his self-control.

Eventually, to his relief his mind was able to sink through the emotions that clouded the upper layers of his consciousness and descended into the deep processing centres which had, in the background, been collecting data for assessment. To his chagrin, there was little of relevance and none of it new. 

While Mycroft had, of course, considered the possibility that Jorgenson himself might be further involved, he hadn't thought it likely. He'd assumed that the man wouldn't be selected for the job; he'd been a field agent, and was most definitely not a technical expert. But there must be some reason why the man had been chosen. Mycroft suspected that it meant Jorgenson's approach would be an attempt to play on supposed residual feelings the man must think Mycroft still harboured for him.

Being honest with himself, Mycroft wasn't sure how he felt about negotiating with the man. Perhaps that hesitation alone was what the Americans had been hoping to gain: Mycroft off-balance, unsure of himself, at the very least distracted by sentiment. And while Mycroft could easily scoff at the idea, he had a nagging doubt in the back of his mind that there might be the tiniest possibility that the CIA might have got it right.

~ + ~

**Sunday, March 1**

When Mycroft saw the article, his first impulse was a sense of satisfaction. Blythe must be desperate to get back at Mycroft for Pollay and Blenner-Hassett if he was going so far as planting stories in the press. It was akin to the clumsy efforts of a spad.

As he read further on, Mycroft could appreciate the quality of the work; without knowing the background, anyone else reading the article would never know it was a plant. Obviously the journalist under whose byline it appeared had been expertly manipulated into writing what Blythe had wanted, raising a number of questions about why there had been no noticeable government or police action in response to the “Moriarty video” at the beginning of the year.

It would likely accomplish Blythe's goal: reviving interest in the “Moriarty” matter, at least among the the population who preferred _The Sunday Times_ over _The Sunday Mail_ or worse newspapers. But as bees chased pollen, so the broadcast press would follow the lead of the newspapers, as they always did. And once questions began to be asked on television, the politicians would turn their attention back to Sherlock and his failure to solve the case to date.

It was a particularly cunning (if not very original) ploy on Blythe's part, using the press to draw attention to where his enemies were weakest. And because he would come in for a share of the opprobrium, no one would suspect that he was behind it all. Mycroft's only realistic hope was that people would ignore the story as old news and that it died without further attention. 

Mycroft wondered how long they had until the people behind the video made their presence felt again. The second and third “appearances” had come at approximately four-week intervals after the first, so they likely had only two to three weeks in which to solve the case before the next incident. And if “Moriarty” wanted to put pressure on Sherlock, all they had to do was make the next act public. And if that happened, Mycroft didn't like to think what the response of the Prime Minister and Home Secretary would be to the public outcry.

Mycroft wondered at the risk Blythe was taking with the article. As the person nominally in charge of the investigation, uncomfortable questions could soon be coming his way, even though the people who mattered knew that the real work had been sub-contracted to Sherlock. But Blythe was officially responsible, and the lack of progress wasn't garnering him any laurels.

But Mycroft's chief worry was what the effects might be on Sherlock of greater pressure from the government. From what he had seen in Mrs Fraser's reports, Sherlock seemed to have given up making even token efforts to solve it once his efforts to get information from Christina had failed. Deborah Oppenheimer had turned out to be no use at all, which hadn't been a surprise. Her decision to take Sherlock to see Christina now seemed to have been nothing more than a whim, though Mycroft was still not entirely sure what game she had been playing other than, perhaps, attempting to tweak Blythe's nose a bit.

On the other hand, Blythe panicking meant that Mycroft was making progress on some fronts. He wondered if Pollay had somehow indicated to Blythe that he now knew what Blythe's plans for him were. And god only knew what landmines Blenner-Hassett might be setting off, racketing around the Foreign Office in his ham-fisted attempts to disgrace Blythe with the Foreign Secretary.

All in all, Mycroft acknowledged that things were in a delicate balance. One end of the scales had risen a bit and the other dropped; now he needed to ensure the momentum change he sensed was nurtured until it become a true turn of the tide.

~ + ~

Waiting 24 hours to initiate safe contact with Jorgenson had almost drained Mycroft's considerable reservoirs of patience. The drive back to the National Gallery had seemed to take forever, as the anxieties that hovered at the edge of his mind settled in. By the time he was wandering the galleries to make his presence known to anyone who was looking for him, he was on edge to a degree he'd long become unaccustomed to.

Since the previous afternoon he'd barely been able to keep the memories at bay and the strain had worn him down. During the day he'd been well served by the constant distractions of work, but the previous night the dreams had been unbearable. Dreams—nightmares almost—of excruciating eroticism had chased sleep from his life, leaving him exhausted and overwrought that morning, the residual sense memories cluttering the periphery of his mind despite his best efforts to banish them.

And now, four inches away was the source of all that misery. Mycroft didn't dare turn to face him; he wasn't sure he could maintain his composure if he did. He was glad he'd chosen the small gallery with the Leonardo cartoon in which to meet; his discomfort would be hidden in the low lighting designed to protect the fragile masterpiece. Three Japanese girls in school uniforms stood in the corner of the room; to calm himself Mycroft focused on simultaneously translating the inane conversation about their hotel in an effort to distract himself from the breakdown that called out from the sidelines of his mind. 

About a minute after Jorgenson had joined him on the small bench, he felt a hand slip into his jacket pocket, then the other man stood and left the room without a backward glance. Mycroft's shoulders slumped as relief replaced much of his anxiety. Once the girls had left, Mycroft placed a hand into his pocket and felt the slip of paper. Leaving it there, he ambled out of the small room and slowly progressed through the galleries towards the Sainsbury Wing in order to reacquaint himself the Giottos.

In the car on the way back to Whitehall, he finally pulled the paper from his pocket.

_Kew Palace. 10 a.m. Tues. Come alone._

Mycroft wondered if he should bring a gun.

~ + ~

**Monday, March 2**

The speed at which rumours of Mycroft's approach to the CIA had reached Whitehall surprised him, even with his twenty years' experience of the gossip network connecting the two agencies. The fact that Blythe seemed to think he had the right to know Mycroft's business was also a surprise, and not just to Mycroft.

“Well, Holmes, why _did_ you approach the CIA?”

Mycroft gave him his best thoughtful, but puzzled, expression. “I'm afraid it would be inappropriate for anyone to share that information with someone unconnected to the matter, Sir Edwin.” Blenner-Hassett jumped in before Mycroft could reply, and gave Blythe an expression of sympathy carefully devoid of anything he could be called out for as mocking. “You know how top secret negotiations go.”

Blythe turned slowly to Blenner-Hassett at the other end of the table. “You knew about this?”

“Of course.”

“And the Minister?”

Mycroft could tell that Blythe thought this a killing blow; he recognised that Blenner-Hassett—unprompted—had opened a can of worms by choosing this path. He wasn't sure B-H had the skills to navigate his way out of the corner he'd blundered into.

“The Minister was briefed; whether he remembers—” Blenner-Hassett shrugged.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft observed Lady Smallwood watching this interchange. Her poker face was in excellent form, he was glad to see, but he suspected he was going to be called onto the carpet very soon to explain what was going on.

After disposing of Blenner-Hassett's distraction, Blythe turned his attention to his principal target: Mycroft. “I certainly hope you weren't attempting to do an end-run around the Foreign Office in regards to the redactions to the Senate Intelligence Committee report.”

Mycroft ensured his relief was well-disguised as the appropriate level of offence and disdain at the idea. “That's a very serious allegation, Sir Edwin. I certainly hope you have some evidence to back it up.” He paused to give Lady Smallwood an opportunity to jump in, but she demurred so Mycroft continued. “But I am curious as to why an _MI5_ officer is so concerned about this matter. After all, it has nothing whatsoever to do with you. I can't help but wonder at the obvious intimacy with CIA operations, as well. Is your Director aware that this is how you spend your hours?” 

“Mycroft—” Lady Smallwood started in warning tones. “I'm sure Sir Edwin had no intention of poaching on your property.” She gave Blythe a look that communicated that her words were as much an instruction to him as an order to Mycroft to stand down.

While waiting for the tension in the room to abate, Mycroft turned his thoughts to the reason behind Blythe's most recent attack. It was further evidence that the man was becoming nervous; not only was Mycroft making inroads into Blythe's administrative empire, but he was re-establishing his severed links with the CIA. The latter likely disturbed Blythe most of all, because it undermined his greatest criticism of Mycroft within the Foreign Office. It was obvious—to Mycroft's relief—that he didn't yet know Jorgenson was in London, or that fact would be on the table now.

Mycroft knew that if there was anyone in the CIA who could keep out of Blythe's sight it was Jorgenson. So as long as they held their nerve—and Jorgenson stayed out of sight until they met again—they stood a chance of obtaining a significant breakthrough. 

And later that afternoon, another tiny cause for satisfaction appeared in the guise of Janet Fraser's surveillance report on Sherlock: John Watson had spent the day at Baker Street, and there was no evidence of tantrums or arguments. Mycroft could only anticipate that in that matter, as well, things were finally moving in the right direction.

~ + ~

**Tuesday, March 3**

Mycroft saw the dark flicker out of the corner of his eye; he wasn't surprised to have not heard the man approach. Neither spoke for a minute or so and Mycroft wondered if Jorgenson was as disconcerted as he was by the situation. 

“I bet you're wondering why I'm here.” Jorgenson finally spoke and Mycroft was annoyed at himself for letting the other man take the initiative.

“Not really.”

“We have something we thought might interest you.”

Mycroft started; he had assumed Jorgenson was in England as a result of Mycroft's call regarding the leaked Intelligence Committee report. His curiosity at the approach won out in a split second. Of course, even if it was a legitimate offer, anything the CIA brought him under these circumstances was just as likely to be a ruse as real. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah, well, that's one of the reasons.”

“Let's start with that then, shall we?”

Jorgenson sprawled a little, not easy on the hard, narrow bench. “A Federal Marshall stumbled onto something related to a particular interest of yours.”

“Which particular interest might that be?”

“Short. Dark. Slightly Irish.”

Mycroft felt himself still for a moment, like a stutter in time, as the implications (if they were true) slotted themselves into the ordered complexity of data he'd been aggregating for the last year and a half. For some time he'd been expecting that a tale along these lines would be dangled in front of him. The CIA wanted him, or Sherlock, and they knew that anything that seemed connected to Moriarty's organisation would be the most effective bait. He ensured his tone bordered on the politely dismissive as he replied. “I've too much on my plate at the moment to concern myself with the dead.”

He heard something that might have been a choked off laugh. “Not so much, apparently.”

“Is this what you came all this way to bring me? Fantasies of men rising from the dead? Do your superiors think so little of you that they sent you on such an errand?”

“He wants to speak to you.”

“The risen dead?”

“No, not the risen dead.” Mycroft heard the beginnings of amusement and unceremoniously shoved the importunate memories back in their vault as he realised he was skirting dangerously close to old, bad habits. 

He sighed. “Why are you here? And do you really think I'm going to be taken in by ridiculous tales? Your employers could have sent anyone. Would have, unless you'd volunteered. So why, Nicholas, are you here?”

Mycroft could almost hear the man's teeth grinding for a moment before he answered. “Because you have something we want and I'm here to get it.”

Knowing that Jorgenson would expect it, Mycroft allowed himself to be seen to preen a little at the admission. But the fact that the other man had done so meant that he was planning on driving a hard bargain, and that he already knew that what he was offering Mycroft up front was just the starting point for negotiations. And this point alone gave Mycroft some hope; the more there was on the table from the other party, the more room he had to manoeuvre for what he really wanted. “What exactly is on offer here?”

“A meeting.”

“With the risen dead?” Mycroft ensured his tone told the man he was _mostly_ teasing. 

Jorgenson sighed, with a touch more melodrama than Mycroft thought warranted. “No, with the guy who claims to have been in business with him for ten years. Up to last year, in fact.”

“I have to say, I'm disappointed. I have information about a security breach that involves either the top levels of the CIA, the President's Office or the Joint Chiefs—”

“Or MI6, or the Foreign Office, or the Prime Minister's Office,” Jorgenson countered. Mycroft acknowledged his point with a slight nod.

“And in exchange you're offering me tall tales from a felon hoping to bargain for a shorter sentence. Honestly, Nicholas—do you really think so little of me?” 

The man shrugged. “This bites you in the ass later, don't come crying to me.” Jorgenson paused and his uncharacteristic hesitation finally drew Mycroft's attention to him. The sight of the man's profile, once so beloved, had less of an effect than Mycroft had feared it might. “There's a personal message, too.” The man turned to face Mycroft. “You've been named. In the Senate Committee report.” He turned away again, unsuccessful in his attempt to hide wry resignation. “You knew already.”

“I've seen it. And it's logical they would choose me as a scapegoat. After my—” _Idiocy. Lack of judgement. Complete cack-handed failure._ “My brother's role in the Bond Air fiasco.”

Mycroft thought it interesting that his first point did not seem to be news to Jorgenson. He wondered if the man's security clearance had been raised just so that he could be given that fact.

“Yeah, you lost a lot of friends over that one.”

“There have been other signs.”

“I heard about that, too. How's he doing?”

“He'd be a damned sight better if he wasn't living under the threat of your colleagues' special attentions.”

“You know I don't have the authority to call off those dogs.”

“Then why are you here?” Mycroft paused to collect himself; he was allowing his anger to bleed through and it was a useless distraction. “Your employers can't possibly have thought your opening offer was going to sway me. They had to know, _you_ at least had to know, that this would be my principal demand.”

“I'm only able to bargain up to a certain value. This is way over that.”

Mycroft bit back the acid retort on the uselessness of having sent someone to negotiate a deal without giving him the authority to do so. Typical CIA, he thought. “You have the authority to take back offers?”

“What kind of offer?”

“Is his future safety available for negotiation?”

“No idea.”

Mycroft sent him a look that communicated what was going on in his mind: why was Jorgenson wasting both their time? Why had he come to London unprepared? “It is my considered opinion, in view of the value of the work I have done in support of your employers over the last two decades—”

“For which you've been paid really well.” 

“—that I have more than earned the right to propose a deal which takes into account the significance of what I'm offering. The deal which we're supposedly here to discuss. And the next time we speak, I expect that you will have been granted the authority to do the job that you claim you were sent here to do. We will meet again in 72 hours.” Mycroft paused as he thought for a moment. “Greenwich Park. The Wolfe Memorial.”

Without a backward glance or waiting for a reply, Mycroft stood, grasped his umbrella, and strode off across the lawns toward the main entrance to the gardens.

It was a calculated risk to flounce off as he had, but despite what the appearance of the exchange might be to an onlooker, Mycroft knew he held most of the high cards in this game. The implications of the leak—regardless of the source or how it had happened—were too grave for the Americans to ignore. Success would largely be a matter of holding his nerve, never an issue for him. While the senior officers of the CIA would be annoyed by the deal Mycroft planned to propose, they were practical men and Mycroft knew he'd have what he wanted, in the end.

The only interesting point in their opening salvoes was the information—if it were true—that they held someone associated with the Moriarty organisation. Mycroft wasn't sure what to think of Jorgenson's claim. The possibility of the elder Moriarty twin being alive had hovered in the background of Mycroft's mind for months, but he had yet to find any evidence that would promote the notion from intriguing possibility to solid theory. Every circumstance, every teasing allusion related to the man could be accounted for with a more plausible explanation than that a fifteen year old boy had managed to fake his death, escape the country under the noses of hundreds of people searching for him, and make his way (most likely) to Ireland. And thence, through his family's connections, to America.

Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh. It was all so nebulous. And in front of him he had this new Jorgenson problem to address, on top of everything else. If he were Sherlock, with no responsibilities and plenty of time on his hands, he might take a punt on investigating this tale Jorgenson had brought him. But he had a country to run and a ruthless and ambitious rival to take down, and there were only so many hours in the day.

On the way back to Whitehall, he called Mrs Fraser. While Mycroft placed almost no value on Jorgenson's tale of American criminals with connections to the Moriarty organisation, he couldn't dismiss it out of hand. He requested changes to the surveillance on Sherlock and the Watsons, from simple observation to overt protection. As an afterthought, he added Christina to the list, though he knew she would complain at the imposition additional security would bring. He told himself it was nothing more than a precaution, and that he would turn his attention to the matter the moment the Jorgenson deal was done. 

~ + ~

**Wednesday, March 4**

Mycroft closed the folder in front of him and made as if to stand. Lady Smallwood hadn't moved, however, and he could tell from her expression that she wanted to speak to him in private, so he remained where he was as the other meeting participants filed out of the room.

“Just a quick word, Mycroft.” She moved to the chair next to him. “How are developments on your other project?”

He'd been wondering when she was going to resume poking her nose into his affair (for lack of a better word). “Fine. Developing.”

“Has there been any progress in the investigation into the accident involving her daughter and her friends?”

“There won't be any further investigation. The coroner's jury ruled it an accident. With some encouragement from the Metropolitan Police, I imagine.” 

Mycroft's implied question was ignored, as she had her sphinx face on at the moment.

“That was fortuitous, all things considered.”

“I agree.”

“And how is Christina?”

“Still upset.”

“That's not what I meant.”

He sighed. He did not want to bring these games into this aspect of his work, but the woman gave him no choice but to lie to her. “Lady Smallwood, are you inquiring into my sex life?”

“Not exactly, no. Though perhaps referring to it as your 'sex life' has given me the answer.” She at least didn't smirk or grin or look in any way soppy as she held his eye. She suddenly looked tired and resigned to failure, the same as she had on Boxing Day.

“Taking advantage of someone's vulnerability is hardly an accomplishment in which to take pride.”

“I don't remember requiring you to be proud of this. Some things we are required to do are unforgivable—”

“But they must be done all the same. Yes, I'm well aware of that.” _It is, after all, the driving force behind this conversation._ All his conversations, recently, Mycroft acknowledged to himself.

She continued to search his face for something. He couldn't imagine what; she'd known him long enough to know that she wasn't likely to see anything there he didn't want her to see.

“May I offer a bit of advice?”

“You're giving me relationship advice now?”

“I wasn't aware it had gone that far. Interesting.” His expression that Christina referred to as the 'constipated frog face' must have appeared, as Lady Smallwood gave him a tired smile. “Do you know why I decided to send you to her?”

“Because she would know that my re-appearance in her life was an overture by the security services and you wanted her to know that.”

“I knew you'd at least deduce that part. But fundamentally, it was because—” She paused for a moment and appeared to gather her thoughts. “Christina is a quite straightforward person.”

“Yes, I am aware of that.” _And how_ , he thought.

“And while I've always thought she has a natural talent for the work we do, she finds it morally repugnant and is loath to involve herself unless she has no choice.”

“And for the last year and a half Sir Edwin has forced her to in order to protect herself and her children.”

“I wouldn't go so far as to say _forced_. But you're correct, in essence.” Lady Smallwood tilted her head slightly and Mycroft thought her faint smile almost revealed a hint of affection, but he couldn't tell who it was for. “I chose you as her 'native guide', to this world she's spent a good part of her life fending off.”

Mycroft pondered that statement, and how it aligned with some of the things he'd found out about Christina over the last two months.

Lady Smallwood smiled again. “She's not unintelligent. I knew that however she was approached and whoever approached her, she would have at least a strong suspicion that it was us. I knew we had little time and I thought, perhaps it increased our chance for success if we used the most obvious means possible. That she'd be more responsive to straightforwardness than attempts at gamesmanship. And I knew you had the imagination to figure out how to get through to her.”

Mycroft thought it seemed a reasonable idea, based on what he knew of Christina's character. Though he wondered what Lady Smallwood meant by “success”. Success at what? And what had been Lady Smallwood's reason for trying to “get through” to Christina? Had it only been about sending Mycroft in to try where Blythe had failed, or did she have another motive?

She returned his faint smile for a moment. “The investigation into Moran is becoming a higher priority.”

Mycroft gave himself a mental pat on the back. “Sir Edwin is going to come after her again.”

“Yes, he will. Has he mentioned anything of the case to you?”

“No. Nor I would expect him to.”

She was failing to hide her irritation at his answer; Mycroft could see that easily enough. “MI5 and MI6 have to cooperate on this case, or it's going to fall apart.”

Mycroft held up his hands. “And here we sit, only able to speculate on what Sir Edwin is planning to do.”

“He's a persistent man; he can't seem to give up the idea that she's hiding things from them. She needs your protection.”

Did Christina need his protection, Mycroft wondered.

He was secretly pleased that Lady Smallwood had finally come out and admitted that this had been one of her motives for sending him after Christina. He toyed with the notion of telling her about Christina's claim that she had proof exonerating herself of any suspicion that she had been involved in Moran's treasons. For some reason Christina had not told the other woman about this proof. 

But that was not the only point of contention, as far as Blythe was concerned. There was still the matter of whether or not she knew anything about Moran and Moriarty. However, Christina had rebuffed him through two rounds of interrogation already. So Mycroft decided to keep her secret. He didn't think doing so would affect the outcome of his own plans; beyond that, he didn't care. “And you think she wants this protection?”

“Of course she does. I think it's what she's always wanted.” Mycroft wondered if Lady Smallwood understood the implications buried in the middle of that statement as she continued. “Do you think she knows anything?”

“I think it's very unlikely. If nothing else, she would have divorced him much sooner if she'd known what he was up to.”

“I agree. She's always struck me as being someone with exceptional survival instincts.”

Mycroft suppressed a laugh, though he did let a small chortle escape. “So, what protections am I supposed to be providing her?”

“Admittedly, you might not be able to do what you once could, but you're far from powerless, despite the situation. You still have allies, Mycroft; don't forget that. And that some of them are working on your behalf, even if you don't see it.” Lady Smallwood stood and gathered her things. She looked down at him for a moment. “Let Christina help you, however she can. I think she might be ready to, now.”

“And what help could she possibly provide?” He knew she would expect scorn at this notion, so he served up a hearty dose of it. Based on the expression that crossed the woman's face, his diversionary tactics were a success.

“A different perspective. Never a bad thing when it feels as though you're running out of options.”

Mycroft could tell there was something else behind her words, but he didn't pursue it. “Of course. And thank you for everything you've done, ma'am.”

“Mycroft, I—” She paused and gave him a look he couldn't interpret. “I wish I could do more. I don't want to lose you. Your counsel. The government would be diminished significantly without it. Some of us do remember that.”

“Thank you. I— I appreciate you telling me.”

“This will pass. And then we will all move on.” She picked up her briefcase and turned for the door. 

As he watched her depart, Mycroft noticed how slowly she moved, as though she were carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. He wondered how that could be possible, as he had always thought it was sitting on his.

When he was alone, Mycroft allowed himself to go back over the conversation and picked out the highlights for further analysis. Much of it had just confirmed what he had already deduced about both women's motives. But Lady Smallwood's comment about running out of options concerned him a little.

It had been weeks since Mycroft had felt his back was to the wall, and he'd never felt as though he had no options. At the beginning, the only options available to him had all been unpleasant, or worse. But the growing evidence of positive results from his various schemes regarding Christina, Pollay and Blenner-Hassett indicated to him that the tide was turning against Blythe, and consequently, that Mycroft would soon be able to secure Sherlock's release from MI5. Did Lady Smallwood know about something going on behind the scenes that proved Mycroft's observations were incorrect? Did she see the actions he had initiated as futile or irrelevant? And why had she not called him on the carpet for what had happened at the meeting Monday morning? Was this a signal that she was loosening her ties to Blythe?

The various plans he had in motion were in such a fine balance at the moment that Mycroft blanched at the thought of having to come up with another approach.

But Mycroft knew that things were coming to a head; the planted _Sunday Times_ article indicated just how far Blythe was willing to go—how great a risk to himself he was willing to take—to take Sherlock and Mycroft down. Sherlock's failures were going to reawaken political opposition, probably very soon. Mycroft knew he had little time to bring it all to a satisfactory conclusion. And to do so in the time available might require him to take another risk and play a card he had been holding in reserve for years.

~ + ~

**Thursday, March 5**

“So, Lestrade. How did you find Sherlock?”

Mycroft could tell there was a quip coming, along the lines of “by going to Baker Street”; he headed it off with a quelling look. The man needed to update his repertoire if he was going to insist on annoying Mycroft with it on a regular basis.

“He claims he's solved another one of the cold cases.”

“The 'dog war case', as it has been organically named?”

“No, the Carol Evans case. Teenaged runaway, 1971. Supposed to have been murdered, but they never found a body.”

“Then why did the police think she had been murdered?” On seeing the other man's mulish scowl, Mycroft continued. “Ah, I see. That was the crux of the matter, was it?”

Lestrade settled in his chair, avoiding Mycroft's eye for a few seconds. “Anyway, he gave me what he thinks is a solution, which is basically just a new avenue to investigate.” He shrugged. “You never know, he might just be right. Be nice to close one of them, at least.”

“He's not provided solutions to the others? I was under the impression he had.”

“Er—” Lestrade paused and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. Mycroft felt his insides twist in anxiety; this was Lestrade's long-established tell for when he was anxious, agitated and/or the bearer of bad news. “Not really; mostly he's just picked holes in the original investigations. Not sure—well, he's not been himself lately, that's for sure.”

Mycroft stilled, and asked the question that he knew Lestrade must know was coming. “In what way?”

“He's—I don't want to say he _is_ using, because I haven't seen any sign of it. But he's been—sloppy is the word I'd use if he was a copper who worked under me. Letting little things slide, cutting corners. I mean, he's always cut corners, but usually because he already knows the answer and wants to just skip the procedural stuff.” Lestrade glanced over to him, and Mycroft forced himself to stop staring at the man quite so intently; frightening him in a misguided attempt to read more into his words wasn't helping. “Now it's more—almost like he doesn't care so much.”

Mycroft must have allowed the depth of his concern to show on his face, because Lestrade almost immediately began to backpedal, likely in a misguided attempt to dispel those concerns. “I don't know; maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he's just distracted. This thing with John and Mary threw him for a loop, that's for sure. The baby. Everything else.”

Lestrade was hanging onto a (likely incorrect) hope that Sherlock hadn't gone back to old, bad habits, but Mycroft knew better. He'd known since the day of the aborted mission. And if he were being completely honest with himself, he'd had his suspicions even on the day he'd gone to visit Sherlock at the MI5 holding facility to tell him of the Kosovo mission, that his brother had been going through withdrawal. 

How could he have thought Sherlock might have given it up after their confrontation over Magnussen in July? There had been numerous signs between the summer and Christmas that Sherlock had been using on and off through those months. 

“Do you think he's been using since Christmas?” Lestrade asked, pulling Mycroft out of his thoughts.

“I know he was, at least intermittently, between the Watsons' wedding and Christmas. Since then—like you say, I have no evidence, but I agree this out of character behaviour is troubling.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade wander off into his own thoughts, before succumbing to the temptation to do the same. He had difficulty believing that Lestrade would be so unobservant as to not notice if Sherlock had been using again. He hated the fact that he had to rely on another's judgement in this way. But Sherlock's regular resistance to being surveilled, combined with Mycroft's need to maintain the semblance of distance for the sake of his plans to take down Blythe, had made it an uncomfortable necessity. And now he was facing the consequences; the lack of good quality data was infuriating.

The possibility that the broadcast hacking case, with its temptation of a possible connection to Moriarty's organisation, had not been enough to induce Sherlock to stay sober added a new stratum to Mycroft's mountain of worries. For he could think of no other play; there was no strategy yet untried with which he might try to steer Sherlock from his current path. If his brother were in fact using, then it indicated that his appetite for self-destruction seemed to be growing, not abating. The solution Mycroft had once thought might work had blown up in his face, in the end. People could be so unreliable.

Mycroft had always known that Sherlock's growing attachment to John Watson, and then to Mary Watson, might end up causing more problems than it solved. And now it seemed that they might be right back to where they'd been ten years ago, only now with fewer options untried. 

Mycroft had always refused to allow despair into his life, but at that moment he had no idea where to turn or what to do. If it had been anyone other than Sherlock, he'd allow his anger to guide him and he'd be planning his escape from the situation. But there was no escape from this; cutting and running was never going to be thinkable in regards to Sherlock. And Mycroft faced the fact that in the matter of the greatest challenge of his life he saw no viable way forward, and he had to confront head on the possibility that there might never be one again. Not unless Sherlock came up with one himself.

~ + ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering what Sherlock, John, and the rest of the gang were up to this week? Find out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/12333119).
> 
> The paintings referenced in this chapter: 
> 
> Christina's puzzle:
> 
> The Wilton Diptych: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/english-or-french-the-wilton-diptych
> 
> Hammershoi, Vilhelm: Interior: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/vilhelm-hammershoi-interior
> 
> Crivelli, Carlo: The annunciation with Saint Emidius: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/carlo-crivelli-the-annunciation-with-saint-emidius
> 
> Turner, JMW: Rain, steam and speed – the Great Western Railway: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/joseph-mallord-william-turner-rain-steam-and-speed-the-great-western-railway
> 
> Solimena, Francesco: Dido receiving Aeneas and Cupid disguised as Ascanius: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/francesco-solimena-dido-receiving-aeneas-and-cupid-disguised-as-ascanius
> 
> Os, Jan van: Fruit and flowers in a terracotta vase: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/jan-van-os-fruit-and-flowers-in-a-terracotta-vase
> 
> Vermeer, Johannes: A young woman seated at a virginal: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/johannes-vermeer-a-young-woman-seated-at-a-virginal  
> (room 26)
> 
> Ortolano: Saints Sebastian, Roch and Demetrius: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/ortolano-saints-sebastian-roch-and-demetrius
> 
> Renoir, Pierre Auguste: The umbrellas: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/pierre-auguste-renoir-the-umbrellas
> 
> Wet, Jacob de (the elder): A landscape with a river at the foot of a hill: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/jacob-de-wet-the-elder-a-landscape-with-a-river-at-the-foot-of-a-hill
> 
> Raeburn, Sir Henry: The archers: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/sir-henry-raeburn-the-archers
> 
> Nome, Francois de: Fantastic ruins with Saint Augustine and child: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/francois-de-nome-fantastic-ruins-with-saint-augustine-and-the-child
> 
> Champaigne, Philippe de (and studio): Triple portrait of Cardinal Richelieu: https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/philippe-de-champaigne-and-studio-triple-portrait-of-cardinal-de-richelieu
> 
> Other paintings:
> 
> Vigee-Le Brun, Elizabeth Louise: Self portrait in a straw hat: http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/elisabeth-louise-vigee-le-brun-self-portrait-in-a-straw-hat
> 
> Dyck, Anthony van: Portrait of George Gage with two attendants:  
> http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/anthony-van-dyck-portrait-of-george-gage-with-two-attendants
> 
> Dyck, Anthony van: Lord John Stuart and his brother Lord Bernard Stuart:  
> http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/anthony-van-dyck-lord-john-stuart-and-his-brother-lord-bernard-stuart
> 
> Stubbs, George: Whistlejacket: http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/george-stubbs-whistlejacket
> 
> da Vinci, Leonardo: The Burlington House Cartoon: http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/leonardo-da-vinci-the-burlington-house-cartoon


	10. Most definitely animal

**Saturday, March 7**

As Singh made his way east towards Greenwich, Mycroft spent his brief interlude of quiet contemplating the possible consequences of Jorgenson not arriving for their meeting. He didn't think it was likely; the man had certainly had enough time to obtain whatever negotiating authority necessary from his employers. However, Mycroft had a niggling suspicion that his peremptory order at the end of their last meeting would not have been well received. Considering that Mycroft was, technically, in the role of supplicant in this matter, in a certain light his attitude might be seen as inappropriate, especially by the men at Langley. But Mycroft had had enough experience with senior management of the CIA to know that an up-front show of strength was usually the best bet; if they had even an inkling that you'd let them walk all over you, they would accept that invitation with glee.

Twenty minutes later, as he sat on a bench near the Wolfe Memorial, Mycroft took a deep breath and settled in to wait. He took the opportunity to examine the extraordinary view over Wren's Naval College to the City, and realised that he had never been to Greenwich in all the years he had lived in London. “Attractions” and parks held no interest for him. His “dates” with Christina had had him out and about in the city more over the last two weeks than in the previous five years all together. He put those thoughts aside as he heard footsteps behind him sliding over the wet grass. As he turned to identify who was approaching, Jorgenson dropped onto the bench beside him.

“Colder than a witch's tit out here. You could have picked somewhere not up on some exposed hill.” The man rubbed his bare hands together while Mycroft refrained from comment. “You surprised to see me?”

“No, of course not.”

Jorgenson choked off a laugh. “English manners.” He leant forward, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Christ, I always forget how cold it gets here in the winter. Anyway, I've got the green light to talk terms.”

Mycroft ensured not an iota of the relief he felt showed on his face or in his voice. “Yes, obviously.”

“I'd have come anyway. Only good manners to tell you to get lost in person.”

“But that is not the case, I presume.”

“Nope. They want those files.”

“Very well.” Mycroft waited for the man to open the bargaining. He clasped the handle of his umbrella, wondering if middle age had blunted the man's once-legendary patience in the field. Mycroft hoped it had; it was indeed very cold out, the bench was hard, and the moisture from the grass was seeping into his shoes. He knew it was going to be a miserable experience and he wanted to get it over with. Mycroft could tell from Jorgenson's bemused smile that the man knew exactly what he was thinking.

“I always hated negotiating with you. It's like trying to win an argument with a turtle,” Jorgenson began.

Mycroft couldn't help a brief chuckle. “Do you have a proposal?”

“Well, head office has informed me that there's no way they're going to let him off the hook for what you're offering.”

“They have no interest in finding out who's responsible for the leak? I find that difficult to believe.”

Jorgenson shrugged; it wasn't obvious which point elicited it. “Obviously not or I wouldn't be here. With his history it's probably a hard sell in some quarters. It's not that they're not interested, they just want more in exchange.” Jorgenson turned to give him a smile that made Mycroft's stomach clench. “I know you'll have something else to throw on the table. Come on, open up the vaults, Mike. Spend some of that gold you've been hoarding for years.”

Mycroft gave him a withering look at the familiarity. The man's erroneous belief that he still possessed the right to use it was irksome, but the flirting was a good sign. It meant Jorgenson was desperate. 

He had only one thing he knew would be significant enough to tempt them. He'd been holding onto this information for some time, knowing its value, waiting for the day when he might need something to put on a bargaining table. Half of his mind resisted the idea of parting with it; the other chided him that he was being stingy and that Sherlock's safety was more important than any future value the information might possess. 

Then he thought that if the CIA were asking for two things, he should as well. Doing so would allow him to save a little face, and get him a vital piece of information, if Jorgenson agreed.

“Well, yes. Something comes to mind. But this is something quite significant, so I would want something else, as well, in exchange.”

“Two for two, eh?”

“Yes. Is this acceptable?”

“That depends on what it is.”

“A loose end. One the agency's long wanted to tie up.”

“Animal, vegetable or mineral?”

“Oh, most definitely animal.”

“And what do you want?”

“It all goes away. Everything.”

“Carte blanche is an awful lot to ask for. Especially with his record.”

“I understand. But that is what I'm asking for. And the only recompense I'm willing to consider.”

“This was his third strike—”

“And if there is another I will gladly hand him over myself.” _If I don't kill him first out of frustration._

They paused, each lost in their own thoughts as they stared out into the thin winter sunlight beginning to crawl over the lawns. Mycroft forced himself to not think of the consequences if his proposal was accepted and Sherlock found out about it.

“You're asking for a lot.”

“And offering more than adequate in exchange.”

“Big game, eh?”

“More than big enough for what I'm asking.”

“Is this a domestic or foreign animal we're talking about?”

“Primarily foreign.”

Mycroft could tell that Jorgenson was surprised by his offer; it was likely much more than he had been expecting. “Okay. I'll take that back. It'll be a few days before I have an answer for you.”

“I want more than assurances.”

“They won't offer more than that.”

“Then we remain as we are.”

Jorgenson grimaced. “God, you're still a stubborn bastard.”

“Nick—”

“Yeah, I know.” His voice was soft, the tone inflaming memories Mycroft desperately wanted to avoid. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

They each paused, watching a man being tugged along by a pit bull twenty yards away.

“How long have you been holding onto that particular piece of gold?”

Mycroft wasn't surprised by the question; being found to have hoarded that kind of information always raised suspicions, but he knew that Jorgenson understood Mycroft's reasoning for saving it. He suspected the gentlemen in Langley wouldn't, though. “Not long.”

“What else do you want?”

“I would like to know who told your lot who was responsible for the incident with our Danish-American friend. And that I would very much appreciate being told now.”

“I was wondering if that would come up.”

“Well?” Mycroft could tell that Jorgenson was giving the matter serious consideration.

“I need something I can take back. A show of good faith.”

“Honestly, Nick—You can't be serious. Of the two of us, I'm the one with the most to lose if this falls apart. If anything, I should be requesting that of you. The remarkable inconsistencies in your story are causing me to think the agency has no intention—”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“So?”

“I was authorised to bring back a deal.”

“You were authorised to _make_ a deal, as I remember.”

“I was auth—Oh, fuck this. God, you always knew how to wear me down, you annoying prick.”

Mycroft didn't spare him the smug little smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. The man's protestations were ridiculous. Mycroft had hardly “worn him down” in the one minute they'd spent discussing the matter.

“I still need to take your 'loose end' back to head office.”

“How long will that take?”

“A few days at least.”

“This is starting to sound remarkably like stalling. Whose interests are you serving here?” Mycroft had been afraid from the beginning that Blythe's influence might derail the project before it got off the ground; the delaying tactics were causing him to think his fears might be coming true.

“Bureaucracy. You know how it is.” Jorgenson chuckled as he looked away across the park. “You're the expert in it, after all.”

“You can hardly lay the administrative and political deficiencies of your employer at my feet.”

“Okay, whatever. I need a way to contact you.”

For this, Mycroft had come prepared. The solution he'd devised was risky for everyone involved, but if Jorgenson did precisely as he was told, they would get away with it. He pulled a folded piece of notepaper out of his pocket. “When you have the authority to move forward, use the first email address to send an message to the second email address.”

Jorgenson briefly consulted the paper, then refolded it and placed it in the pocket of his jacket. “That's a British government email.”

“Someone I trust. You must write the message exactly as follows. The subject line is to say 'Dinner,' and nothing else. The body of the email is to say, 'I've confirmed with David, and we're on for' and give the day. Nothing else. And sign it 'K'.”

“Who am I pretending to be?”

“An employee of her family's estate. I'll brief the recipient tomorrow. She will pass on the message to me verbally. I would appreciate more than 24 hours notice; if she and I see each other too frequently, it will draw suspicion to her, which I would prefer to avoid. We will meet that day at 10.00 am. The pagoda at Kew.”

“Using civilians for operations is against the rules, you know,” Jorgenson replied, teasing. He made to stand.

Mycroft ignored the jibe. “The other matter?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Jorgenson made a watchful 360 degree turn responding, just loud enough to be heard by Mycroft. “It was your old friend Blythe. Good luck with that.”

“Who is his contact at the CIA?” _In for a penny,_ Mycroft thought as a displeased expression appeared on Jorgenson's face.

“Why should I tell you?”

“I believe Blythe's extra-curricular activities may extend beyond the CIA.”

Jorgenson's head snapped around, but he didn't say anything for a few seconds. “We talking just a bit of a bad boy, or totally off the rails?”

“I'm not sure at the moment.”

“How do we come into it?”

“I would like information on any of his outside entanglements. There may be an indirect connection to a party I have my eye on.”

“This have anything to do with your girlfriend or her ex-husband?”

Now it was Mycroft's turn for a shocked raising of the eyebrows. Before he could answer, Jorgenson continued. “I recognised her from Larry Martin's file.”

“And what caused you to consult his file recently?”

“Speaking of bad boys. He's been drawing some attention recently. You know what happened there?”

Mycroft had hoped Martin had taken rudimentary precautions before sending Mycroft the note at New Year's. The CIA tracing that to Mycroft would cause complications he didn't need at the moment. “Yes, well, we all have our assumptions about what precipitated his early 'retirement'.” Mycroft paused while he considered the risks involved in sharing anything with Jorgenson about Blythe or Moran beyond what he'd said already. “I have no evidence that there is a connection between Blythe's extra-curriculars and his charge.”

“I should fucking well hope not, considering.”

Mycroft gave a small, mordant chuckle. “Indeed. No, these are different matters.” _Even if still possibly connected._ With a tiny flick of the wrist, Mycroft nestled that little conundrum in Jorgenson's mind to take back to Langley as a souvenir of his London jaunt. It would take root, nurtured by the man's stubborn curiosity and inability to leave well enough alone. Eventually he wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore, and in the end Jorgenson would be doing Mycroft's legwork for him. He loved dealing with people who were just clever enough to catch a hint, and just malleable enough to obey without realising they were.

Jorgenson paused to watch a young mother stride by, pushing a pram and talking on her mobile. When she was out of hearing range, he turned to Mycroft. “Pete Miller. That help?”

“A little, yes.”

“We done here?”

“Not unless you have another surprise demand.” 

Jorgenson gave him a sarcastic smile, then a nod, and headed off across the park.

Mycroft watched the man stride away across the wide lawns; he forced himself to watch until Jorgenson had rounded the corner and disappeared behind the curve of the hill.

In the car on the way back to the office, Mycroft fought a rising sense of exhilaration and panic. Did he have the necessary evidence to take to Lady Smallwood and the Home Secretary? Would they believe him?

Mycroft knew that if the story were brought to them by anyone else, Jorgenson's word would likely have been enough. But his own ongoing conflict with Blythe over the years would render the story suspect, simply because it was being delivered by him. But would he ever have anything more concrete to take to them? And more critically, did he have the time to wait for it?

Mycroft felt a moment of paralysis at the idea of never being able to prove that Blythe was behind the threat to Sherlock. He tossed the idea out of his mind. If he was going to succeed he would need to have confidence in his ability to talk them around. He could only play the cards he possessed, and he would play them as astutely as he could.

Resolve restored, he called Andrea to request she set up a meeting as soon as possible after the Home Secretary's return to London on Wednesday. She did not ask when he did not tell her the subject of the meeting.

~ + ~

**Monday, March 9**

Mycroft had spent the two days since his meeting with Jorgenson fighting off growing disquiet and frustration. Nothing he attempted came to fruition. He needed to speak to Christina about his arrangements with Jorgenson, but she had been out of town and discussing the matter on the telephone was out of the question. 

Christina's probable reaction to getting dragged into the Jorgenson business did not help his anxiety. Her refusal to return to town early had him contemplating a trip to Hampshire on Sunday to see her. While they needed to speak before Jorgenson contacted her, and waiting until late Monday evening was doing his ulcers no good at all, he had hesitated. 

Under other circumstances, no one—not even Blythe—would bat an eye at him spending a Sunday with his “girlfriend” in the country. But doing so immediately after meeting Jorgenson for the second time in less than a week would cause an unfortunate connection to occur to Blythe. If the man even suspected that Mycroft might be involving Christina in the Jorgenson matter, Blythe would have MI5 immediately pick her up for questioning. Showing his hand at this moment would imperil his entire game against Blythe; nothing could be allowed to do that. So he was going to have to wait for Monday evening, and trust in the bureaucratic wheels at the CIA turning as slowly as he remembered they always had.

There was no doubt in Mycroft's mind that by the end of his meeting with Jorgenson on Saturday, Blythe had known that Jorgenson was in London. Even at his best he would have been hard-pressed to stay out of sight in a city with as pervasive a CCTV system has London's, short of holing himself up in the American embassy and never coming out. 

And to top it all off, his second meeting of the day involved most of the cast of characters he'd been towing through this drama: Blythe, Pollay, and Lady Smallwood. At least neither of the Ministers were scheduled to be present; Mycroft didn't think his current state of mind was up for dealing with the Foreign Secretary without blood being spilt.

It was with a clamouring sense of distraction and annoyance that Mycroft entered the committee room. After greeting Lady Smallwood, he turned his attention to Blythe, not sure what to expect.

The man's appearance was much as it always was, his expression no more supercilious than normal. Mycroft did not allow himself to be deceived; the man's calm most likely reflected a feeling of self-confidence based on knowing one of Mycroft's secrets. He was not surprised when Blythe took the first possible opportunity to go on the offensive, less than ten minutes into the meeting.

“There is the remarkable timing of the broadcast. Just in time to save your brother.” Blythe's smirk showed he thought he'd led with the killing stroke.

“Something no one could have anticipated.” Mycroft was startled by the risk Blythe was taking voicing his accusations in this manner. But the man was still implying more than he was saying in an effort to not commit himself, so Mycroft had to make Blythe come out and voice his accusations. This would force him past the point of no return. If Mycroft let the man equivocate, the conversation would drift off with no resolution.

“It had to be someone who knew when your brother was leaving.”

“Obviously. But that could just as easily point to you, Sir Edwin. Or Lady Smallwood—” They both glanced at the woman, who watched intently over her glasses. “—or any of the people who knew Sherlock's itinerary—”

“No one of the other seven—” 

“Eleven,” Lady Smallwood interrupted. 

They all turned back to her for a moment, varying degrees of dismay on their faces. Mycroft wondered why Blythe hadn't bothered to think through that list. Anyone who had been at the meeting in December could have figured out who else had known.

“Yes, eleven,” Mycroft continued, his voice expressing none of the relief he felt at the implied support for his argument. “Any of whom might have—”

“But you were the only one with motive to do so,” Blythe countered quietly, in tones that stated he considered the matter closed.

“What exactly are you implying, Sir Edwin? Let's be frank with each other, shall we?” Mycroft replied in a silkier version of the same.

To Mycroft's consternation, Blythe didn't reply. It was as if he had just realised that once he stepped over the threshold that Mycroft was trying to tempt him over there was no going back. To Mycroft it seemed as if Blythe were unsure whether or not he wanted to face the consequences, which surprised Mycroft. He'd always thought Blythe the sort of man to burn the world to the ground to get what he wanted.

 _Say it. Say it, say it. Say it say it say it say it,_ Mycroft chanted in his head, eyes never leaving Blythe's face as the man danced around his own professional grave but just bloody well refused to dive in.

Mycroft could tell from Blythe's face that the man knew exactly what he was waiting for, and after having come so close was now going to be careful not to give in. So Mycroft knew he was going to have to give him a little push.

“Regardless of what 'detectives' on television programs might assert, the convergence of motive and opportunity do not equate to guilt. There is also the matter of character.” Before the man could respond, Mycroft cut him off. “Please spare us the trite reminder of Occam's Razor. And if you have an accusation to make, please do so and stop wasting our time.”

A perfectly poised stillness filled the room as all waited for Blythe's response. The two of them stared across the table at each other as if they were alone, and Mycroft knew that every moment of silence was a grain of sand dropping onto his side of the scales.

“You went to Canada House the day before your brother's scheduled departure.”

Mycroft felt his body sigh, down to his very corpuscles, down to the marrow in his bones. He maintained his outwardly relaxed, but intent demeanour as every pair of eyes in the room turned to him.

He felt light, as if his every care had disappeared. It had not been said, so it was not going to be said. And if it was not going to be said today, it most likely wasn't going to be said at all. And if not, they were going to get away with it as long as everyone kept their head. As long as Jorgenson did exactly what he'd been told. As long as Christina did not inexplicably abandon him and refuse to help. For the first time since Christmas Day, Mycroft allowed himself to give a tip of the hat to Hope, the goddess he had spent his life refusing to empower with his regard.

Mycroft threw a puzzled look onto his face. “Yes? And how is that relevant?”

“Laurence Martin.” Blythe intoned the name as if doing so slammed the door shut on Mycroft's future.

“Yes. And?” Mycroft was beginning to enjoy this part of the game now. Now he had confirmation that Blythe did not know _why_ Nick Jorgenson was in London. He could suspect all he wanted, but even if his suspicions were correct, he had no proof. Because twenty-three years of sterling service had bought Mycroft the kind of credibility that could not be brought down by speculation alone. And if Blythe had proof of what Mycroft and Jorgenson had been discussing, _that_ would have been the accusation that Blythe would have thrown at him, not some nonsense about Laurence Martin.

“He sent you a communication through the High Commissioner.”

Mycroft sighed with a hint of melodramatic boredom for the benefit of their audience. “Again, if you could explain how this is connected to anything of relevance, Sir Edwin—”

“He told you something that drove you to create that ridiculous video, to ensure your brother would be called back from his mission. Then you created another to ensure the government thought there was an ongoing threat—”

“What other video?” Mycroft turned to Lady Smallwood, feigning confusion. “This is the first anyone has mentioned a second video to me. When did this happen?”

“Do you really expect us to believe your brother or his bumbling friend at the Met didn't pass that information on—”

“For heaven's sake, Sir Edwin. Anyone who knows anything about my brother is aware that he and I aren't on good terms at the best of times. I'd like to go back to the first part of this ludicrous fantasy of yours. What exactly is the nature of this supposed threat that Laurence Martin is supposed to have communicated to me? What could entice me to imperil my career, my brother's freedom and possible the safety of the nation? What, pray tell, could a Canadian, _domestic_ counter-terrorism expert tell me that would cause me to risk all that?”

Blythe, the master actor, waited for the anticipation in the room to ripen to the moment of perfection before answering. “He told you the CIA had a rendition order out for your brother.”

Mycroft heard someone—probably Pollay—gasp. He waited for the initial wave front of released tension to dissipate, then said, “I would very much like to see any proof you might have to support that bit of tale-spinning. Or is this another result of your strangely intimate and inexplicable connections to the CIA that have come to the fore in the last few months?”

“Do you deny it?”

“There is nothing to deny. Even if what you say is true, is it a crime to receive information from an officer of a sister agency? Again, how exactly, might this be related to anything of relevance?”

“Even the courts acknowledge the value of circumstantial evidence when the burden of it weighs so heavily on one side,” Blythe added, ignoring Mycroft's questions.

“Actually, Sir Edwin, I would also appreciate seeing any evidence you have to support these assertions,” Lady Smallwood interjected.

No one said a word as all eyes turned from Blythe to her, then back to Blythe, and Mycroft engaged thirty years' experience at keeping his emotions off his face as he joined the rest of them in waiting in silence for the man's reaction. A part of Mycroft dreaded the final blow, for Blythe to pull irrefutable proof out of his pocket. But it didn't come and in that moment Mycroft knew that it probably wasn't ever going to.

Lady Smallwood caught Mycroft's eye and gave him a slight nod, then turned her attention back to the agenda. 

On one hand, Mycroft knew that he had just dodged a pair of bullets. On the other, the fact that Blythe felt threatened enough to go on the attack with inferior armaments meant that Mycroft was closer to being in control of this farce, and that the end was coming soon. He could only hope he had the chance to play his trump card before the game collapsed in on him and Sherlock, rendering all his efforts for naught. And as the meeting returned to its scheduled path, he began to ponder how Blythe had learnt the contents of Laurence Martin's note.

~ + ~

As Mycroft approached Christina's classroom, he couldn't help thinking of how matters had changed since his previous walk down that corridor. If someone had told him six weeks ago that he was on the point of trusting her, quite possibly with his career and Sherlock's future, he'd have said they were mad. But here he was. 

He felt a brief swoop of nerves at the realisation of what he was about to do. The sound of approaching voices and footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he stepped aside for the departing students. Once the crowd had thinned out, he began his decent to the front of the lecture theatre. When Christina caught sight of him, it was obvious she was surprised. Then she smiled up at him. 

“I wondered if you would show up tonight,” Christina said as she pulled on her coat.

“When I said that I needed to see you, it wasn't a figure of speech.”

“Shall I send McLean home?”

“Yes, I think that would be best.”

As they navigated the half-empty corridors, Mycroft could tell that she was in one of her strange moods. By the time they reached his car, the tension was palpable and Mycroft hoped she would make some effort to keep her temper in check when he told her his plan. The last thing he wanted was to waste his evening manoeuvring around one of her outbursts.

Shortly after Peterson turned the car south-west, Christina shared the cause of her mood.

“Edwin Blythe called me today.”

 _Bugger_. “Oh? What did he want?”

“What did you say to him?”

“What—? Perhaps if you answer my question I might be able to answer yours.”

“Well, first of all, his opening was to inform me that the investigation into Sebastian is on again. Which was a surprise to me, as I didn't think it had been closed.”

“It hadn't.”

She nodded. “Anyway, he said they had 'new avenues to pursue'. So I guess we're entering the final phase of the cover-up.”

“Which one?”

She gave him a pointed look. “Sebastian and the bombing. Do you think he'll ever be prosecuted?”

“Not while this government is in power.”

“That explains a lot. Blythe is getting his ducks in a row for after the election.”

“Recent polls support his plan to hedge his bets.”

“What happens if they do prosecute?”

“Political chaos. Possibly a constitutional crisis focusing on the role of the Lords. Sherlock's role in preventing the Parliament bombing comes to light—”

“That would be a good thing, wouldn't it? In terms of holding Blythe off.”

“Perhaps. Sir Edwin would, I'm sure, manage to find a way to claim the lion's share of the credit.”

“I'm guessing the two of you had a little contretemps earlier today?”

Mycroft paused and filed that with the rest of his observations about Blythe's behaviour over the last week or so. “He did accuse me of being behind the broadcast hacking in January.”

Christina made a small choking noise before replying. “What?”

“Well, not in so many words. But he was well down that path before he remembered that he possessed absolutely no evidence to support such a claim, and that I'd have flayed him alive with his own knives if he'd actually said it.” Mycroft paused and gave her a thin, slightly insidious smile that he knew she would appreciate. “So disappointing when one's enemies develop inconvenient survival instincts.”

While Christina chortled in a most satisfying manner, Mycroft tried to not look smug. He was not disappointed in failing entirely.

“I suppose I have you to thank that I was only on the receiving end of a tirade rather than the expected kidnapping and interrogation.”

Mycroft returned her bemused smile. “Perhaps a greater portion of the credit should go to Elizabeth Smallwood.”

“I see.” Christina turned her attention to the passing traffic and Mycroft gave some thought to how he would broach the subject of his arrangement with Jorgenson. He thought it best to wait until they arrived at his apartment.

The moment they walked through the door, Christina made a beeline for the library and poured both of them drinks. Mildly amused at her proprietary attitude toward his whiskey, Mycroft took the proffered glass and joined her in their now-customary chairs facing each other in front of the fireplace. Neither of them spoke for a minute or so, and Mycroft allowed himself to enjoy the peace and quiet. While his mind plotted the least dangerous path from Jorgenson to Christina, he felt his body begin to relax. He glanced over to her; she was staring at her whiskey, with a slight frown. 

“Questioning your choice?”

“No.” 

When she didn't elaborate, Mycroft knew it wasn't important. So he decided to set out on the path he had charted to his goal.

“Has your uncle ever shared his thoughts with you regarding Sir Edwin?”

Mycroft could tell the subject startled her; perhaps she had been thinking of the man and was now speculating if Mycroft could read her mind. 

“Once or twice.” She smiled a private little smile as she turned her attention to her memories for a few seconds before continuing. “He always thought Blythe was more a politician than a real intelligence man.” She took a sip of whiskey, and from her expression Mycroft knew she'd taken the bait and was interested in where he was going. “Why do you ask?”

“Sir Edwin mentioned him today.”

“Really? In what context?”

Mycroft hesitated; he'd told no one of his communication from Laurence Martin in January. “The day before Sherlock was to have flown to Kosovo, I received a note that I've always assumed originated with your uncle. It informed me that the CIA had issued a rendition order for Sherlock.”

The obviously unfeigned shock on Christina's face told Mycroft everything he needed to know on that matter. Her expression flashed from shock through confusion to amusement. Then she burst out laughing. This was not the response he'd been expecting, and he knew there must be something unknown behind it. By the end she was weeping with laughter, and he waited as she pulled herself back together.

“Sorry,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “Sorry. I suppose that was his goodbye to the Americans and Harper. Serves them right for forcing him out the way they did.” She paused for another burbling laugh. “He'd been forced to play Step-and-Fetchit for the CIA for thirty years. And he's not a man to pass up the opportunity to get one back as he's being escorted out the door.”

“Yes, his treatment was very shabby.”

Mycroft left Christina alone with thoughts of her uncle for a minute or so. “So what was it you were so desperate to talk to me about?” she eventually asked, turning her attention back to him. “It's the ex-boyfriend, isn't it?” There was a twinkle in her eye that set Mycroft on his guard.

“I wish you would stop referring to him as my 'ex-boyfriend'.”

“You do realise protesting like that just makes me want to do it all the time?”

He paused, glass halfway to his mouth, then deliberately set it on the table at his elbow. He didn't know why he found her deduction so irritating. Before he could reply, she continued with another question.

“Is he here about that email you received a couple of weeks ago?”

This time, Mycroft knew his surprise had managed to make its way past his defences to his face. “I think it would be best if you did not pursue the matter.”

She smiled. “Thought so.”

“Christina—” 

“You want to involve me in this little game, don't you? You could have just asked without all the cloak and dagger.” She watched him expectantly as he contemplated his options. 

They had reached the point they had been sidling up to in their two-steps-forward-one-step-back progression for the past two months. On one hand, she'd proved herself a discreet custodian of the knowledge that the creator of the “Moriarty video” had approached him. On the other, telling her more than the absolute minimum likely wasn't going to be good for her safety.

“My 'ex-boyfriend', as you insist on calling him, is named Nick Jorgenson.” The name seemed to mean nothing to her, which was a relief. “He has been tasked by his employers—”

“The CIA.”

Mycroft nodded. “To negotiate an arrangement regarding certain documents—” At her obvious alarm, he added, “Not documents of the British government, let me assure you.”

“The 'mystery documents' you insisted the person who sent you the Moriarty photo didn't send you.”

He ignored the mild rebuke. “Yes. I have proposed a trade and he has taken my offer back to his employers. It is most important that Blythe not know beforehand where and when we will be meeting to discuss this. We have agreed on the place and time of the meeting; I am awaiting his word regarding the day once he hears back.”

“How much does Blythe know?”

“He knows that Jorgenson is in London and that we have met. But he has not indicated that he knows why, though I imagine he has suspicions.”

“He'd have said something today instead of bringing Larry up, which was pretty weak. So where do I fit in?”

“I need you to convey the date of our meeting.”

Mycroft waited for the explosion. To his surprise, it didn't arrive. From what he could see, it wasn't even hovering in the background. “You gave him my contact information?”

“Your email address at the Archives is public information.”

“Okay.” She paused and Mycroft sensed she was deciding whether or not to protest the intrusion into her working life. “So how am I supposed to know which message is from him. I can't imagine he's going to sign it 'Mycroft's ex-boyfriend, the CIA super-spy.”

He gave her a toned-down version of his quelling glare, which had no noticeable effect on her. “The email address I created for him uses the name of the housekeeper at Ashton; it should not draw any attention from MI5.”

“Good choice. It's a common name, so there's plausible deniability for her if MI5 decides to go after her later.”

As Mycroft watched her mull the matter over, he was pleasantly surprised by her equanimity at being dragged into the middle of the Jorgenson business. She watched him back with a considering expression. “What is that look in aid of?” he asked.

“Nothing, really. Just—this wasn't what I was expecting when you came to see me at the Archives that first time.”

“Oh? What were you expecting?”

“And I was also thinking. Did you ever care for this Jorgenson? Or was he just a means to an end, as well?”

He wondered if the words were meant to anger him, but the contrast with her almost friendly tone was more confusing than upsetting. “I don't believe that is any of your business.”

“If I'm getting shoved into the middle of some war between you and the CIA, and it's coming out of your past with this man, then yes it is.”

“I fail to see where this 'shoving' is occurring—”

“It can't be a coincidence that they sent him.”

“—I do not see the point—”

“This is my life you're being so cavalier about. But then, you've always thought the world is just a temp pool you can call on when you need a hole in a plan plugged up, or someone to play a supporting role in one of your personal dramas.”

Mycroft paused. He was still confused by Christina's apparent calm and, despite her words, apparent good humour. She had still not agreed to her role in his plan; it would be best to clarify that point, before the conversation deteriorated into a misguided re-hashing of old grievances. “Can we please set aside the trip down memory lane—”

“Mycroft—”

“—and address the reason why we're here.”

“You want me to help you and your chum, fine. But if this comes back on me, I won't rest until Sherlock pays the price. Fair warning.”

For ten seconds or so, there was no sound in the room other than the crackle of the fire. A rising tension hung in the air between them like one of London's old choking fogs. Mycroft eventually forced the words out around his clenched jaws. “Why Sherlock?”

“Because if this blows up I know I'll never get near you again. Him I can get to.” While Mycroft formulated a reply that wouldn't undo two months' worth of work, she smiled at him over her glass.

Mycroft relaxed. It was just another one of her silly and poorly-conceived “lessons”. “Your point has been noted.”

“But not accepted.” She was back to bemusement, which Mycroft knew he could work around. “Perhaps you can make it up to me by satisfying my curiosity on one point.”

With a rising sense of dread, he replied, “Go ahead.”

“What happened in that winter of '92, how long a grace period did those three months earn you?” When he didn't reply, she sat back in her chair, a smug little smile on her face that told him he'd made the mistake of letting her see his discomfort with the subject. “I certainly hope you got a good return for the price of your dignity.”

He pulled himself out of his little funk; he had previously suspected that before his plan was finished she would demand a return to their past. He had hoped that their midnight conversation after the attack on her daughter would have satisfied her on that point, but apparently not.

“Two years,” he finally replied.

She nodded. “Why did you think the same play would work again? Not that it really did back then, either.”

“Oh, I knew you would see through it. That's why I chose it.”

“I knew from the beginning you were acting on Elizabeth's orders.” She nodded abstractly and Mycroft watched, curious to see if she would deduce it correctly. “Nice double bluff,” she added.

Mycroft was surprised at his satisfaction at her having solved it. “You're remarkably sanguine about _her_ using you, I note.”

“She just reminded you that it would be in each of our best interests to use each other. _I_ did not need reminding.”

Mycroft was glad to note that the tone of the conversation was back to mild teasing. “What will you do now?”

“Wait for Blythe's next move. Take it from there.” She paused for a moment, staring into the fire and tapping her foot on the floor. “How long does he have?”

“The million pound question, and one I cannot answer.”

“Are you sticking around until the end, or do I get pushed off the bus once I've helped you and your CIA guy?”

“No. But—” Mycroft paused. Until he spoke to the Home Secretary and Lady Smallwood on Wednesday, he had no way to know what his next move might be regarding the Blythe situation.

“But—” Christina answered, interrupting his thoughts. “I guess we just play that by ear, as well.”

He gave her a probably not very reassuring half-smile. “Yes. We do.” 

~ + ~

**Wednesday, March 11**

Getting onto the Home Secretary's schedule at short notice had not been a problem for Mycroft for a number of years. But it had taken all of Andrea's considerable negotiating skills to make it happen the first day that the Minister was back in London.

When he arrived at the Home Secretary's office, Mycroft wasn't surprised to see Lady Smallwood waiting already. He had ensured he arrived just before the meeting, which obviously irked her. The timing was intentional; she had proposed they meet beforehand, but Mycroft had begged off. He suspected she had wanted an opportunity to harangue him about Monday's meeting and he didn't think a row just before meeting with the Minister would serve anyone's interests.

After they'd all made their greetings and gone through the requisite pleasantries, Mycroft dove straight into the subject of the meeting.

“Information has been passed to me that I believe will shed some light on a number of outstanding matters.”

“Yes?” The Home Secretary seemed distracted and Mycroft fumed a little. “What matters?”

“The Magnussen murder. And a possible connection to the broadcast hacking in January.”

It was obvious that neither of these subjects much interested the Minister. To her, there was no mystery about the Magnussen murder, and the broadcast hacking was a dead story; no one had picked up on _The Sunday Times'_ article, and there was no political capital to be gained by pursuing it further.

“It has come to my attention how the CIA learnt so quickly that Sherlock was responsible for the Magnussen murder.”

In contrast to the Home Secretary's lack of enthusiasm, Lady Smallwood was obviously intrigued. Mycroft wondered if she knew about Jorgenson, as well. And she, at least, seemed to understand the implications of how badly that had been handled by the SIS. “Who was it?” she asked, when the Home Secretary remained silent.

“Sir Edwin.”

 _That_ got the Home Secretary's attention. “And who told you this?”

“Nick Jorgenson.”

The Home Secretary and Lady Smallwood shared a look. Mycroft knew he didn't have to tell them who Nick was; his reputation preceded him by a fair distance.

The next question came from Lady Smallwood, and Mycroft wondered if the two women had a pre-arranged plan to play table tennis with their interrogation, batting him back and forth between them. “And when did Mr Jorgenson impart this information to you?”

“Yesterday.”

“Nick Jorgenson is in England?” The Home Secretary seemed to be genuinely surprised and upset. Mycroft knew that if the former were real, the latter was certainly justified. “Why? And why am I just finding out now?”

“You would need to ask Sir Edwin why MI5 declined informing you; he has known for more than a week.” Mycroft allowed the tiniest hint of disdain to colour his voice. “As to why he is here, he came in response to information I passed to him two weeks ago. CIA command obviously felt that an in-person response was most appropriate, all things considered.”

“And what, exactly, was this information you passed to the CIA?” Lady Smallwood was disappointed in him for some reason. As if she were his mother and he a teenaged boy who'd been caught out lying about getting drunk with friends instead of preparing for his Oxford entrance interview.

“And what were those things 'under consideration'?” the Home Secretary asked.

“Two weeks ago, an unknown person sent me sixteen pages of a document. One of extreme sensitivity, with the highest security rating. It discussed my former role as liaison to the CIA.”

“Mycroft—” Lady Smallwood scolded.

“Yes, I am aware of the policy on how we are to respond to such incidents. I also strongly suspected that the sender did not have legitimate access to the document from which those pages were taken. So I contacted Jorgenson, as the person at the CIA most likely to be willing to talk to me, and who had the authority to bring the matter to the attention of those who needed to know, quickly, that there most likely had been a leak.”

“It's the Senate Intelligence Committee report, isn't it?” the Home Secretary asked, resuming the alternating questioning.

“Yes. The un-redacted version.”

The two women shared another look, concern deepening on both their faces.

“I can't say I like your response to this, Mycroft,” Lady Smallwood began. 

“Why are we finding out about this now?” the Home Secretary added.

“Because every person who it might be considered appropriate to inform at our end was a suspect. Imagine the panic if this had been shared with the Cabinet. Then it would have got into the press, and I do not need to tell you what the consequences of that would have been. And who else would the Prime Minister have asked to investigate? The Met?” he gave them a faint expression of distaste as an exclamation point to his argument.

The Home Secretary's demeanour flashed from annoyed to bemused, then back again in the blink of an eye. “So, getting back to why we're here. Jorgenson came to London to collect this file that someone sent to blackmail you. Yes, I caught that. The CIA wants to analyse it to find out the source.”

“That was his principal reason for being here, yes.”

“And in one of your usual side deals, you bargained for the identity of who told the CIA that your brother murdered Magnussen.”

“Yes.” Mycroft was glad that neither woman seemed to feel that he needed to justify his actions on that point.

Their responses were much as he had expected: the particular kind of watchful silence that spoke of a deeply-ingrained survival instinct, and a loathing of saying anything until every possible response had been identified, analysed and appraised. Mycroft would have expected nothing less from this particular audience. High on the list of what they were likely contemplating was how they could use this information for their own purposes, so he knew there would be no condemnation for his intention to do exactly that. 

Mycroft forced himself to ignore the potential importance of the moment, transforming it in his mind to just another minor irritant being brushed aside. The last thing he wanted was to put down the chance, now that it was heading inexorably in the direction of his hands. “If the information from Jorgenson is correct, and we have no reason to believe it isn't, then this raises a number of questions regarding recent MI5 involvement in anything to do with the broadcast hacking in January.”

“Perhaps you can walk me through the connection because, I'm afraid to say, I'm not seeing it,” The Home Secretary replied, her words inching their way out of her mouth like moles poking their heads above ground and blinking in the sunlight.

Lady Smallwood had gone very still and Mycroft suspected that she had just made a fortuitous deduction on her own.

“The connection is a bit circuitous; the clues are in the timing of certain appearances that have occurred over the last few months, and their relationship to events occurring around Sherlock or myself.” Mycroft paused to allow the two women to ask questions. Lady Smallwood nodded for him to continue, so he did.

“Let us start with the hacking into and subversion of elements of the nation's broadcast and display advertising systems. What that precipitated this series of events. It occurred exactly at the moment that Sherlock's flight to Kosovo left the ground. I think we can agree it was not likely to be a coincidence, and that whoever was behind the hacking did so in order to ensure that Sherlock would remain in England. They had to know he would be called back to address this supposed new threat to the nation.” 

Both women's eyebrows shot up at the word “supposed”, but Mycroft ignored them and ploughed on. “As Sir Edwin kindly pointed out on Monday, there is a very small number of people who knew of this flight and its timetable. Twelve, as Lady Smallwood reminded me. Three of them, John and Mary Watson, and Sherlock himself, would have motive, but no opportunity. To the best of my knowledge, the Watsons have never known the nature of Sherlock's mission.” _Though I would not be at all surprised if Mary Watson had suspected_ , Mycroft added in his mind.

“Five people—the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office Secretary, the Foreign Office Secretary, Robin Blenner-Hassett and Richard Pollay—might have had the opportunity to cook up such a scheme to keep Sherlock in England, but none of them had the motive to do so. Which brings us to the four people who had both.” Mycroft paused again. Both women were sceptical, he could tell, and Mycroft knew that he had arrived at the critical point of his exposition.

“The three of us and Sir Edwin—”

“Yes, we realise that, Mycroft,” the Home Secretary interjected in warning tones.

“I think we can dispense with any false missishness about opportunity. We all knew at least four days beforehand when Sherlock was leaving. As to motive—” Mycroft sensed the growing hostility in the room and modified his tone somewhat. “Lady Smallwood. I know of your concerns about that mission from its conception. They were partly operational, and I believe, partly as a result of your residual guilt for being the person who set Sherlock on Magnussen's trail in the first place.”

The Home Secretary gave Lady Smallwood a sharp, puzzled glance. So she didn't know about Magnussen's blackmail, Mycroft thought. That was unexpected. His bringing it to the Minister's attention would not win him any favours from Lady Smallwood.

“Minister,” Mycroft began, turning back to her. “You wanted Sherlock in London, so that he might continue to cover up the deficiencies in the Metropolitan Police Services. His absence from their cases over the last few months has had a detrimental effect on their clearance rate.”

“Your friend Lestrade been telling tales out of school, has he?” She replied in waspish tones. But she didn't rebut the substance of Mycroft's assertion, so he knew he'd hit the nail squarely on the head.

“Now, to my motives.” He took a deep breath; this was the beginning of the hard yards. “I can understand why an outside observer would expect me to want to keep Sherlock in England. In fact, I was not entirely unhappy about his departure.” Both women appeared genuinely shocked by that statement. 

“Immediately after Magnussen's murder, I knew that there were parties in the government who would attempt to take advantage of what many saw as a failure on my part. Magnussen's murder was partly ascribed to me, as a failure to control my brother, whom the SIS have always considered under my charge. 

“I was terribly concerned that those parties might try to use Sherlock against me, for I knew that my brother was unwell and vulnerable. He had fallen back into sporadic drug use in the summer. So I thought the trip worth the risk to get him away from England for a month or two while I sorted things out here. I knew I could extract him from Kosovo without too much difficulty when the time was right.”

“Assuming he was still alive,” Lady Smallwood said.

Mycroft gave her a thin smile. “I have considerably greater faith in Sherlock's survival skills than does the average MI6 analyst, ma'am.”

“Of course,” she replied with the beginnings of a smile, and Mycroft knew that she, at least, had swallowed his story. 

The Home Secretary was staring at him, obviously upset. “Your brother is a drug addict? How did you keep that out of the papers? And out of his file, I might add.”

“He was sober for more than six years until last summer.”

“I see.”

The Home Secretary made no other comment other than a scowl, so Mycroft continued. “And our fourth candidate is, of course, Sir Edwin. His motives for keeping Sherlock in England are more subtle. Quite simply, he wanted Sherlock to be presented with a high-profile case that he would fail to solve, in an attempt to discredit me.” Mycroft knew he wasn't going to have to argue his last point; both women had seen too many examples of Sir Edwin's efforts to question that statement.

“You're claiming Sir Edwin put together that ridiculous video and hacked into all those systems as part of a plot to destroy your career. I'd like to see any evidence you have to support that accusation,” the Home Secretary replied and Mycroft heard the expected doubt in her voice.

“No, ma'am. But I believe that he provided the information of Sherlock's departure to the people who did, suspecting that _they_ wanted Sherlock to remain in England for their own purposes.”

The words themselves were anodyne, but their implications were inflammatory. And neither woman would require schooling from Mycroft to follow the trail of logic to the end. Accusing a senior figure in British Intelligence of conspiring to assist an enemy of the nation was as close to the “nuclear option” as any of them were likely to see in their lives, and Mycroft knew the hook had to be set with the gentlest of touches.

Both he and Lady Smallwood watched the Home Secretary carefully for any sign of which side of the fence she would choose. While her loathing of Blythe was well-known, accusing him of disloyalty was a condemnation of her oversight of MI5, a matter that required the utmost delicacy.

As they waited, the silence in the room seemed to grow and grow, taking on a life of its own, and Mycroft began to wonder if she was contemplating refusing this timely gift. 

Mycroft did not need her to believe it, not entirely. He just needed her to _doubt_. To doubt enough. Because Mycroft believed that if Blythe were questioned about any of this he could crack, and that was all Mycroft needed to precipitate the man's back-pedalling out of his and Sherlock's lives for the foreseeable future.

“So who are these mystery hackers you claim Sir Edwin is helping?” the Home Secretary asked.

“Most likely the very same ones that Sherlock has been prevented from finding for the last two months. Prevented by Sir Edwin.”

“You're saying Sir Edwin sabotaged your brother's investigation in order to hide his own involvement in, what exactly? And how did he go about setting your brother up to fail?”

 _Thank you, Minister, for the best leading question this side of Hello Magazine_. “Deborah Oppenheimer was the start. Choosing her as Sherlock's handler ensured he would receive no help from MI5. No one at the agency has trusted her for over twenty years, ever since her little flirtation with the CIA. That's why she'd been limited to contract psychiatric work since the 1990s.

“Sir Edwin could spin the decision as an attempt to accommodate Sherlock's idiosyncrasies when, in fact, it was locking a yoke around his neck and hobbles on his feet. Then he ensured Sherlock received no intelligence, no data at all, in an effort to frustrate him.” _In the hope he would go back to drugs out of boredom_ , Mycroft left unsaid, though he suspected, based on her wry smile, that Lady Smallwood had followed the thought to its natural conclusion.

“Can you prove any of this?” The Home Secretary asked the question that Mycroft had hoped they would conveniently forget. 

“Apart from Jorgenson's assertions, I have no confirmation other than logical deductions and past experience of Sir Edwin's methods.”

“That's hardly a case,” Lady Smallwood remarked quietly. Mycroft could tell she was disappointed, but she couldn't blame him for trying.

“The matter justifies further examination. It would have been irresponsible of me to have not brought it to your attention,” he replied in his own defence, making sure none of his annoyance at their reactions showed. “There is a considerable number of facts that do align—”

“You've certainly given us some food for thought,” the Home Secretary replied before he could continue. She glanced over at Lady Smallwood, who nodded her agreement.

Mycroft knew it was likely the best he could hope for with the admittedly tenuous story he had presented to them. And if nothing else, the Minister now knew that Blythe told the CIA about Magnussen's murder—an action taken without her approval—was enough to ensure Blythe was called in for a good talking to and probably a wing-clipping. Mycroft could only hope that the conversation would progress from there, and that Blythe would let something slip that supported Mycroft's more damning assertions assertions.

It wasn't much on which to pin his hopes, but it was more than Mycroft had had two weeks ago. A few more grains of sand that tipped the balances a little bit more in his favour. And he consoled himself with the thought that from tiny grains of sand landslides might grow.

~ + ~

**Friday, March 13**

Mycroft looked up expectantly as Andrea entered his office.

“Nothing yet. I'm trying to get through to Kirsty Latimer.” Andrea's thumbs flew over her phone, then paused for a moment as she read an incoming message. Her clouded expression turned into a thin smile of satisfaction. “Ah, she's just asked if we can meet for drinks tonight.”

Mycroft watched as she called her contact/mole in Blythe's office to confirm a meet-up that would turn into a well-disguised interrogation about goings-on in Blythe's office for the last two days.

That morning, the man had been closeted away with the Home Secretary and the Director of MI5 for more than an hour, and Mycroft was becoming agitated at the lack of intelligence as to what had occurred. Before he could plan his next move, he needed to know if they had accepted at least part of his argument. Now things seemed to be happening and Mycroft was _itching_ to find out what the fall-out was going to be. No one he knew at MI5 was talking (no surprises there), but no one at the Foreign Office, not even Blenner-Hassett, seemed to know what the meeting was about. But the presence of the Director of MI5 was telling, or so Mycroft hoped.

Andrea ended her call. “He's back at the office. Straight-away he called Pollay in, and it's turned into a hair-pulling contest, by the sounds of it.”

Mycroft smiled. “In what way?”

“Kirsty said no one has really heard what they're saying, just that they've been shouting at each other for the last ten minutes.”

“Sir Edwin's office does have inconveniently excellent soundproofing.”

“She said everyone's trying to find excuses to spend time in the supply cupboard; supposedly the wall's thinner on that side.”

“Excellent.” Mycroft resisted the urge to steeple his fingers in the manner of a Bond villain.

Andrea turned her attention back to her phone as another text arrived. “You know what that's all about, I take it?”

“I have an inkling.” 

As Mycroft turned back to his computer, his personal mobile rang. His stomach took a small leap when he saw who it was. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon to you, as well. How's your day going?” Christina asked. Mycroft could tell it wasn't a social call; she had her classroom voice on.

“Well enough. I have an intriguing proposition on the horizon, I believe.”

“That sounds like fun. The reason I called is I heard back from Kate.”

Mycroft smiled to himself. He'd been wondering for the last two days when he was going to hear from Jorgenson. “Yes?”

“She and David have confirmed for tomorrow.”

“Thank you for letting me know.” Mycroft ensured he sounded as sincere as he was able. After all, he was actually grateful, and his sense of relief that Jorgenson had come through caused him to feel magnanimous. “I'll call tomorrow to let you know when to expect me.”

“Okay. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Until then, Christina.”

Mycroft suddenly realised that one of the unintended consequences of his little plan was that he was now going to have to spend a good part of his weekend in Hampshire. He sighed, then sat back and allowed himself the indulgence of five minutes of self-satisfaction. Plans were coming to a head. The CIA had responded to his offer. Blythe was (possibly, hopefully) stymied for the foreseeable future.

After his five minutes were up, he allowed the appropriate doubts and counter-arguments to crowd into his mind. But all in all, he sensed that the tide was definitely turning. 

~ + ~

Mycroft was packing up to leave for the evening when Andrea entered his office. Her expression instantly put him on alert.

“Deborah Oppenheimer has been shot. She’s dead.”

He dropped back into his chair. He didn’t bother to ask if she was sure; she would have sought out at least two corroborating sources before bringing him something of this magnitude. “What do we know?”

“From what I could find out, it happened just after five. At home.” She paused. “Thames Valley have been there.”

Mycroft’s heart sank. “Please get on to Lestrade. I want him here as soon as possible.” For a fleeting moment, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock had shot Oppenheimer, then dismissed the idea. Sherlock would have perceived from the start that the woman was no threat to him.

“Yes, sir.” 

What the hell else was going to happen today? Friday the 13th, indeed, he thought. And why were they only finding out now? He called Sherlock’s number three times before giving up and resorting to a text.

_Call me. Now._  
No pissing about  
M 

He turned back to Andrea, who was just signing off her call with Lestrade. “How did Thames Valley get involved?” For a moment he worried that a friend or family member had found Oppenheimer dead and called the police, but he couldn't imagine even Blythe would prepare his people so poorly to allow that to happen.

“A neighbour, sir. Doctor Oppenheimer was shot in the conservatory at the back of the house. The neighbour heard the glass shatter and when she looked over saw your brother in the conservatory. It’s most likely the neighbour thought he'd broken in and she called the police.”

“Was anyone else in the house at the time? Other than my brother.”

“No. Doctor Oppenheimer's wife arrived home just as Blythe’s men were leaving. They did not have your brother with them.”

What an unholy mess this was going to be. He tried Sherlock again and got through. “Where are you?”

“Your manners are slipping, Mycroft. ‘Pissing about’? Are we twelve today? Do you make a habit of being rude to the mentally ill?”

“Where are you, Sherlock?”

“Thames Valley station, where do you think?”

 _Why in heaven’s name did Blythe let Thames Valley take the one witness to a political murder (and most likely the real target)?_ “Please tell me you’ve been your usual charming self with the police and not told them anything of substance. Someone will be by soon to secure your release.”

“Too late; they’re letting me go as we speak.” There was a pause, with muttering in the background; Sherlock speaking to the desk sergeant, by the sounds of it. “And I’ve already blabbed everything I know anyways, all the gory details. They wouldn’t let me analyse the splatter patterns, though. Jealous, I suspect; they don’t want me stealing their thunder on a juicy murder case.” He sniffed. “The DI's a woman.”

“I'll have a car there in an hour.”

“Don't bother. I'd rather take the train anyway.”

“Sherlock—” The connection was cut off and Mycroft swore under his breath. There was no telling what affect this would have on his brother, but he knew that he'd be the one picking up the pieces, as always.

Mycroft sat, very still, his mobile still cradled in his hand. He was most definitely not going to panic. Nor was he going to waste any time being angry with Sherlock for once again landing in the middle of a ridiculous mess and refusing to provide Mycroft with the information he needed to get his brother out of it. The part of his mind still paying attention to what was going on _outside_ his head noticed Andrea hovering nearby. He looked up to her.

“Chief Inspector Lestrade said he'd be here in ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

Mercifully, she then departed, leaving Mycroft to his scrambling, jostling thoughts. He took a deep breath and began herding them into some semblance of order.

The first thought out of the chute was: _Well, I suppose_ that's _the CIA's reply to an offer to trade for Sherlock's protection._ But Mycroft knew it was not the time to be making rash judgements, so set the idea aside for further examination later. The more excitable corners of his mind were shouting _Blythe! Blythe!_ , but he knew not to give in to the temptation to only listen to what he wanted to hear.

Of all the aspects of the situation that needed to be clarified, the first was determining whether or not Doctor Oppenheimer had been the actual target. Had it been, in fact, a botched attempt on Sherlock's life? Or had she been murdered to send some sort of signal or warning to Sherlock? Or was it entirely unrelated to him? With the available data, arguments could be made to support any of those scenarios. 

A motive for someone to kill Sherlock was more obvious; he had more _known_ enemies, a number of whom were certainly capable of such an attempt. The disturbing lack of information about Deborah Oppenheimer, especially the motives behind her activities with Sherlock, made it impossible to know with any certainty if someone might want her dead, or why.

The fact that the attempt occurred during Sherlock's visit to the Oppenheimer woman must be significant, Mycroft reasoned. Sherlock's complete refusal to countenance taking even the most rudimentary security precautions meant that any potential assassin could have killed him at pretty much any time. Mycroft doubted that Doctor Oppenheimer would be quite so accessible. At the very least, she probably kept the front door of her house locked, like any sane person did. So analysis of motive or opportunity didn't further his analysis much.

Following a niggling idea, Mycroft called up an on-line map of the neighbourhood where the shooting took place, as well as satellite imagery. Taking into account Andrea's information that the shooting had occurred at the rear of the house, Mycroft determined that the assassin most likely had been located in the back garden or on the roof of a house in the next road. In that neighbourhood, the properties were large, the houses far apart and screened from each other by trees. 

The technical prowess required to make the shot at that distance, in those conditions (through glass at a distorting angle, without being seen in the afternoon), indicated that it had been a professional job. And any professional worth the coin would have made the shot despite the difficulties; they wouldn't have missed their target and hit her by mistake. Accepting that conclusion meant Oppenheimer had been the target after all, to Mycroft's relief.

All these thoughts brought Mycroft back to the matter of motive. While Sherlock might have a surfeit of identifiable enemies, Oppenheimer had none that Mycroft knew of. He could speculate all he wanted that Blythe was involved in some way, but Mycroft had nothing but supposition underpinning that notion. His mind both recoiled at and was fascinated by the possibility. Oppenheimer had been a private contractor, a civilian, and Mycroft couldn't help but wonder what might have driven anyone within MI5 to want to kill a woman who had once been one of their own, if indeed, they had been ultimately responsible.

Then Mycroft remembered one tiny fact: they had all been wrong. There hadn't been twelve people who knew about Sherlock's mission. There had been _thirteen_. Why had he forgotten that Deborah Oppenheimer had been at the meeting where the mission had been decided? Why had Lady Smallwood not included Oppenheimer in her count? Had she forgotten, as well? Had she been involved in Oppenheimer's death? And was this event another thread in the tapestry of problems suffocating him and Sherlock, or was it another matter entirely? 

Regardless of all the questions swirling around in his mind, it was too late in the game to be distracted by fruitless speculation. He would have to add the Oppenheimer murder to his ever-growing mental In tray for the time being. Sherlock's safety had to be his focus.

Mycroft felt a headache flow over his brain from the back of his neck to his forehead.. If all went according to plan the next morning, Mycroft would be accomplishing a significant gain in that direction, regardless of Deborah Oppenheimer, Lady Smallwood, or Edwin Blythe. And then he would prepare for the inevitable fall-out from his solution, and the price he had paid to acquire it.

~ + ~


	11. One of the lesser sins for those of our kind

**Saturday, March 14**

It had been an unseasonably cold, clear night and there was still frost on the grass where it was shaded by the pagoda and the nearby trees. Mycroft was not surprised to hear the crunch of footsteps approaching. When he turned to watch Jorgenson approach, he was amused to see the man picking his way gingerly through the stiff, frost-covered grass like a cat in the snow.

“You picked this spot just to piss me off, didn’t you?” Jorgenson asked as he sat next to Mycroft.

“No. The condition of the lawn means it’s impossible to sneak up silently.”

Jorgenson took a long look around them. “Why bother? I see at least seven good sniper spots.”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes.”

Jorgenson laughed, and Mycroft was glad to see the man's mordant sense of humour hadn't diminished over the years. They sat in amicable silence, watching a man in Kew staff uniform mulch a bed of shrubs about fifty yards away.

“Does she know what you’re involving her in?”

The expression of concern for Christina's wellbeing was a surprise; Mycroft wondered if it was real or just an attempt to elicit indiscretions about their relationship. “She knows enough, and no more.”

“I can't figure out how you’ve always been able to get women to do what you want.”

“I give them the respect they deserve,” Mycroft replied after pondering the comment for a few seconds. “An approach that doesn’t seem to come to mind for many men.”

“I still can’t get over you and her. That’s—”

“On my file, I’m sure. We were at Oxford together. One of the stranger coincidences in my life.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in them.”

“I don’t. But.” Mycroft shrugged. “Why are you interested?”

“I’m not, really. Just curious.”

Mycroft just barely suppressed an eyeroll at the obvious lie. But until Jorgenson coughed up what Mycroft needed, he had to play along with whatever games the man was trying to initiate. “One of the lesser sins for those of our kind, I suppose. Potentially fatal, though.”

“Hasn't killed me yet.”

“Yet.”

They exchanged polite, thin smiles. Mycroft wasn't sure if Jorgenson's reluctance to discuss the matter in hand presaged a satisfactory conclusion to their previous discussion or not; for the last week Mycroft had been disturbed by his inability to deduce what the other man's thoughts might be on the proposed deal, or how much his masters would be guided in their deliberations.

Jorgenson turned to watch a man drive by in a small vehicle, then stop and talk to the man mulching. Their lack of interest in Mycroft and Jorgenson was suspicious, so Mycroft kept one eye on them.

“I heard back.”

“Yes.” _I certainly hope so, or why are we here?_

“I— I have to say, I argued against it.”

Mycroft carefully hid the relief flooding through him. “And you feel the need to explain?”

“I think this is a shit deal for us. Everything—”

“Were you authorised to provide the commentary, as well as the message?''

The other man frowned at him and Mycroft regretted the snap he'd allowed in his tone. “You want the message, you get the commentary, too.” Jorgenson paused for a few seconds and after a brief staring contest that Mycroft always knew he was going to win, Jorgenson backed down and looked away. “Langley has authorised me to inform you that we agree to your terms.”

“All of them?”

Jorgenson nodded. “Where's the—”

“Under the seat.” 

“Okay.” Jorgenson drew an envelope out of his jacket and handed it to Mycroft. He was surprised that the man had passed it over without ensuring the flash drive was there. But Jorgenson had always been a little too trusting of Mycroft. 

A quick scan of the document confirmed it: Sherlock was safe from the CIA as long as he didn't drive another one of their operations into the proverbial ditch ever again.

“Well?”

Mycroft placed the letter in his jacket's inner pocket. “In 2008, a CIA operative by the name of Anna Grace Rice-Anderson disappeared in Lebanon.”

“Oh Christ, Mycroft. Anna Anderson—”

“In late 2009, she re-appeared in London, having taken the name of a child stillborn in 1972.” Mycroft drew a small piece of paper from his pocket. “Her name is now Mary Watson. She is married to my brother's closest friend.” He handed it to Jorgenson, who appeared startled by this further coincidence, then stood. “Might I request that every effort be made to spare John Watson's life? He knows nothing of her true past.” Mycroft could only hope that that lie might result in a lessening of the pain that was coming Sherlock's way. “There is a child, as well.”

Jorgenson stared at the slip of paper. “How long have you known?”

“She came into John Watson's life two years ago. Once it appeared that the relationship was becoming established, I had her background checked. She was remarkably sloppy, considering her training.”

Mycroft could tell that there was more Jorgenson wanted to say, most likely about Mycroft having held on to the information for two years. He had no idea if Jorgenson had worked with the former Anna Anderson, and he didn't care. But Mycroft could tell that the man was upset, perhaps at being reminded of the exact reason why their careers had diverged so much over the years, and why Mycroft's had surpassed his to such a degree.

“This is the reason why people in Washington don't trust you anymore.” Jorgenson held up the slip between the tips of two fingers, waving it slightly. “Your priorities. Are all out of whack.”

Mycroft shrugged. His priorities had saved his brother's life, again. At the cost of someone who would be a continual danger to Sherlock and so needed to be dealt with, anyway. “I think we shall have to agree to disagree about my priorities.” 

Jorgenson didn't have a pithy response to that, and made no move to leave. After his complaints about the cold, he must have something else to say, or he was waiting for Mycroft to leave first.

“You planning on spending the rest of your life dragging your brother's ass out of the fire? How old is he, forty?”

Mycroft turned to him, sighing internally. Sherlock had always been a bone of contention between them; he could imagine just how chagrined Jorgenson must have been that Sherlock was at the centre of this matter, as well. “You've never understood—”

“You're right, there.” 

Mycroft huffed, annoyed. It was pointless to resurrect old arguments. Their business was done and he needed to move on to the next item on his never-ending list: the “Moriarty” situation.

He held out his hand. “It was good to see you.”

After a short glare, Jorgenson shook it. “This is it, Mycroft. Never again.”

“I know.”

They stared at one another for a few seconds while Mycroft considered his own surprising calm. “Good-bye, Nicholas,” he said, then turned and walked away.

As Peterson wove his way through the streets of Richmond, Mycroft forced himself to set aside thoughts of the fall-out that would occur as a result of his choice; the prospect of it made him light-headed with anticipation. While his concerns were warranted, self-flagellation would hardly be productive, though, so he forced himself to focus on more congenial matters.

Mycroft allowed himself to indulge in a sense of relief that the deal with the CIA had come to fruition; it restored somewhat the natural order of things, or at least his situation as it had been before Magnussen. And based on the previous day's ructions for Blythe, Mycroft appeared to have finally knocked the man back on his heels, as well. Hopefully it would be enough to allow Mycroft greater manoeuvring room.

Progress in his various plans over the past few days had resulted in significant changes to Sherlock's threat profile, which was a source of tremendous satisfaction. The short-term threat that Blythe represented had been diminished, even if not entirely eradicated. He imagined that the medium-term threat of Mary Watson would, now that it was in the hands of the CIA, be dealt with soon. Returning himself somewhat into the good graces of their American associates—or at least reminding them that Mycroft could no longer be ignored—was a particularly felicitous aspect of recent events.

But he knew that Sherlock would find a way to make him pay for what he had done. Mycroft was enough of an adult to acknowledge that he had miscalculated in allowing the Morstan woman to become part of Sherlock's life, so it was only fair that he paid a price for his mistake. At the time, he had known the risks, but the goal of making Sherlock less dependent on John had seemed a prize worthy of the gamble. 

In going after Magnussen to cover up her lies, though, Mary Watson had selfishly returned to her assassin's ways without regard for the consequences to anyone else. As a result, Sherlock had felt he had to kill Magnussen so that she didn't have to. His brother sacrificing himself for John (and Lestrade and Martha Hudson) was one thing, but doing so for the sake of a woman who had no qualms about needlessly bringing danger to everyone in her life was something else. And despite the consequences, Mycroft would never regret his choice in removing that threat from Sherlock's life. 

For thirty years Mycroft had been doing this: planning, cajoling, manipulating, coddling, scolding and scheming, all to ensure his little brother's safety. Thirty-nine years before, his parents had brought a squalling monster into Mycroft's life, and it seemed as though for every day since, Mycroft's principal function had been to ensure it lived to see another day.

And soon the problem would be out of Mycroft's hands. For eventually—possibly quite soon, if the CIA acted as quickly as Mycroft suspected they would—Sherlock would know what Mycroft had done. It would be years before Sherlock might acknowledge that Mycroft's only goal had been to protect him; all Sherlock would see was that Mycroft had at last committed an act that he considered truly unforgivable.

So the forseeable future was one where the torch of Sherlock's care was passed over to John Watson; Mycroft would be relegated to watching from an even greater distance than before. Considering John's behaviour since the birth of his daughter, the prospect was disconcerting. When Sherlock fell apart—as he was sure to do when the CIA dispatched Mary Watson—John would be in no position to help. The two of them, both crippled with grief, would have only each other for support, and Mycroft knew that John had failed that test once already.

Mycroft knew he must stay away, still, regardless of what happened, regardless of what ongoing threats hovered around his brother. Regardless that Sherlock's response would be to turn to self destruction, again.

For his own sake, Mycroft knew he had to turn his back on the emotional precipice he was skirting; to distract himself he spent five minutes pondering the ways he might be able to push something into Sherlock's path that might avert the disaster to come. His only feasible option would require luck, discretion, and a skilled accomplice, and Mycroft was pleased to think he might know just the person. He only hoped his desperation for a solution wasn't clouding his judgement.

Turning his attention from the yawning pit in his gut, Mycroft knew he would never regret the path he had chosen. Because he had played his role as he always did, and played it gladly. He had done what was necessary to keep Sherlock safe, regardless the cost. 

~ + ~

the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering what Sherlock got up to while Mycroft was bargaining for his safety? [Find out here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5148155/chapters/12458486)
> 
> Well, here we are almost at the end of the road! Thank you all for making this long journey with Mycroft and his gang. There's one more long story (and a few small ones) to come in the series. Next up we return to Sherlock and John, and a story about investigating the death of a friend, reconciliation and retribution.


End file.
